What happens when the slow drip stops?
When inspiration runs dry?
It never happens overnight -
Does anyone even notice?
Is it not like when
a tree falls in a forest
and no one hears a peep?
They say that
every time a bell rings
an angel gets its wings.
But what about when the bell stops ringing?
Are there no more winged angels to be had?
Where do all the unfinished sentences lead?
Ideas caught - somewhere - mid-thought?
Perhaps, the most precious things in life
Lie in the details left unshared,
the stories left untold.
Silence kills.
How much wisdom have we lost out on because someone held their tongue?
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