Blood, ruefully resting;
Its owner out of reach,
in a roomful of silence,
sighing a salient speech.
’tis derived from deliberation,
Similar to any other spoken syllable.
Yet differing, for the latter lacks attention
In contrast to sight
when coloured crimson.
For what did become of her voice,
That which sincerely sought solace?
Only to be given a gesture of dismissal.
much like unwelcome noise.
O, that faded voice, pining to placate!
Confused by breath or bereaving it.
Then, the invariable indifference
Seduces sanity, like a sleepy serenade
And the choice is – unconsciously ours – made.
Now all of her that is left behind
Are mere moments of the past tense.
Stories that exist only in the mind;
But without happy endings, intertwined.
And in a roomful of silence,
her blood, ruefully resting;
sighs its salient speech:
“If only we had listened.
If only we had listened.”