The Skill of Speaking - Nora

A word a subtle insult, not forward, is where it all begins, in a biting retort that stings. Gentle praise, or a harsh phrase, a cliche, they say, but I disagree. It takes a raw soul to see the implications in a glance, the horror, or the possible romance, or, growing like a weed, the burgeoning greed, or in some, ever-present like the universe's hum. A frantic biting of the lips, one that just about rips like a gnawing despair that harbors no care for the fragile mind that cares too much to be kind. A word cannot form the picture of the norm, the extraordinary or the painfully dreary. It cannot capture the enticing rapture of a power that is higher, a flickering or steady fire. Unintentionally lit matches illuminate the fervent scratches that can either brighten our eyes or reveal lies. A flame that burns allowing us to yearn for the spirit of the passionate flame. It consumes no shame, heady and breathtaking it reveals all I am faking.