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my bare palm are raised, upturned, yet I stare unto the heavens
My tongue is free, unencumbered, yet I cannot speak
For words have fled their abode in my heart
Just as love have fled its abode in his heart
I should speak, I should tell of the fear and the hurt in my heart
I should tell of this need for love and reassurance
Yet who would bother a woman in labor with tales of a burning house?
For such tales would be deemed ‘dis-comforting noises!’
Lord! How I’d loath to speak of such ‘dis-comforting noises!’
Yet my heart craves the return of warmth and kindness to his voice
But even if my tongue is free, unencumbered,
I still cannot speak of hurts and needs
For the fear of making ‘dis-comforting noises!’