Our rage on high so often dies unheard,
Like echoes shunned away by sheer stone cliffs,
Words press and fade and fade again, unstirred,
The mountains are by shouts of should or if.
How anger peaks when anger meets, titans,
Set sure, determined not to shift or halt,
Hard ridgelines cast that never break or bend,
When words break others, though, we see our faults.
A better way, descend from our summits,
And walk the valley, see what is ahead,
For there is ground between these walls, a bit,
Words said and heard bring mountains down instead.
The time to talk is when it’s you and me,
And let love speak, together, what can be.
– andy nixon, June 29, 2015
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