August 23, 1990

97. Our Time Has Grown Short

Oh, silence...
     Rid me of your evil grasp
     and let me speak.
     Your dark hand covers my lips
     so that I cannot say
     what I feel in my heart.
Oh, dear, beautiful girl
     to whom I write these caring words,
     know that my silence is note
          of anger, nor fear,
          a spiteful thought I could never muster.
          Silence is only my way of holding
          back these anxious tears
          that want to cry out, “I miss you!”

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