it’s not a shout

it’s not the final cry of a beast, broken, struck down
king of the jungle, laying down his crown

it’s not the howl of the wind,
or the growl of thunder,
no rain lashing no sleet cutting
because raging storms aren’t borne
from quiet conversations

and shouts don’t sound
when there’s nothing to let out.

it’s the slow tumble of a leaf
ice creeping over water
embers cooling throughout the night

touching but not quite; the wind sends it away
a flawless veneer; a layer of cold fragility
once warm but fading; you can’t rekindle ashes

how long can you slow dance in a burning room
asking georgia why, when there’s no such thing
as waiting on the world to change


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