What is it about a cry,
or silence that makes us listen?
The capture of attention.
Listening is the hand that cuffs the broken winged bird.
noises of dominance,
and divisions of sound
This is what keeps our hands ready.
Our wrists are cuffed,
a prisoner to our own Will.
When tears turn into
When roars simmer to yawns.
When laughter disguises anguish.
When silence is seen as submissive.
Why does our Will stop us from peeling those layers.
As they make make us taste our own salt…
The greatest virtue is not to caress a broken or the most coursgous bird.
It is to feed any bird,
with our hands behind our back.
Lacking beautiful sight,
but you know the sensation
of ticklish palms,
is the bending of Will.
To bend an iron bar of empathy is not great,
bending a titanium rod of Will is.