There it was, again.
The smile that bled,
Whilst being sewn into station
With thoughts; Feelings; that remain unsaid.

It rattled in its cage,
To make its way
Through the stitches of
imposed silence
Waiting not, for a hope-filled ray.

To hope before trying?
Was a vanity affair; one
That rivets defeat; as the loss adds itself,
To the inventory of battles the victor won.

The victor in question is
Often, a fellow host of word.
When it’s one’s own mind
That’s, alas, the only time it’s truly heard.

A mouth is nothing, but
A subservient chalice.
A chasm for the product of thoughts,
And prey to its puppeteer’s malice.

Thus to plexure its way in this war,
That even extends to Morpheous,
The mind leads a battle against its inhibitions;
Where it aims to emerge victorious.