The emotions have no tongue
save that of crude interpretation
There is no song can be sung
nor really any fountain of adequate creation
can lend sufficient lung
to the wails of the wide eyed child
who headless is blindly stung
deadly by the first love.
Every love is the first

every love is the last
There is no means of articulation
so loud, so holy, so grand
can express the always virgin sensation
of the fallowed heart and the severed hand
Threats are wasted promises; foolish lies
words are ephemeral fire fly lights;
tears are grand but useless as tombs;
the emotions have no tongue.

Ian David Arlett