I wrote a rhyme about the tendency to speak out loud any manner of the floating bits of inner commentary that baseline attend to nonsense , to censor the insistent call succinctly declaring truths of spirit and soul.  Crystal clear in formation, rhythms composed of speech, languishing bereft of audial heft.  I’m sure I’m not the only one, neglecting to utter matters.

Here’s the rhyme:

In the voice of the mind

reaching to find

tried words heard

returned at the first

reckoning

beckoning

what is said

in the head

filtered down to fine

speak not of the best

unless in jest

quiet soul gleams

silent folds deep