Tongues that cannot speak, ears that will not hear because patience wears thin and they refuse to entertain those slower than them. An impediment that robs the soul of expression, an oppression that forces one to choke on thoughts that will not form. It must be an infinity, the time awaited between deliberation and sound. A silent world awaits, so tensely and carelessly, making us realise the flaws that we are.
We cannot see past ourselves when we make decisions to kill, with hand or speech. There are those that lay in the darkness, being formed gently and within their own time. A pure light in this darkening world. No malice or hate, without a care or sorrow. Do we not understand the beauty of life and the intricacies that come with inspiration? Delicate and fragile, each story is masterly woven into the firmament of time.
Every page is embossed with words of gold, and meant to bloom into a beautiful flower in endless, lush fields. Who are we to dictate where each flower should grow? Who are we to select the best and exclude the rest? Without the others, our story remains unfinished.
Our ignorance lays claims on the powerful, allowing the voiceless to wither and scream for mercy and help. A cry that falls back into the silence it is birthed from. Living a life underwater, suppressing the best of us, a murder unheard. For those of us who can speak, let us fight to be their voices. Let us stop this evil slaughter.
Why do you stand in the distance watching them shrink into the enveloping shadows? They are one of us, and we all come and go to the same desperate places. We are not better, and they are not worse. Everyone is dying inside, in more ways than one. But these cries do not need to go on unheard.
And these souls need not die before their time.
