He was born a mute,

Until the ink got a hold of him.

It stretched his tongue

and as he licked the back of his teeth,

He realized he had a voice.

He found confidence in the deep and in the bass,

He was a mute no more.

Now,

It wasn’t very loud

But it could still be seen,

It could still be felt.

And when he spoke everyone felt it.

In their eyes, they found someone new,

He was a mute no more.

During his days of silence he was alone,

Comforted only by his own thoughts

He became an enemy to himself.

He stitched his lips together

And sealed lips don’t make very many friends,

And the friends he had all spoke in rich voices,

Every word was smooth and gentle and silk.

He was afraid they would turn their backs on the roughness in his tone,

The scratches in his vocal cords.

How every word seemed to crack as they left his mouth.

You see he was fine with being alone

But he feared being left alone.

So he became a mute.

Hand gestures ruled conversations

And the silence ruled him.

But, alas,

He found others.

Lords of erratic arm movements

And Queens of the quiet.

And together they shared in ink.

Black became the language of expression,

So they expressed,

And rejoiced,

And celebrated.

They were mutes no more.