Silence Is Not Golden. Poem by Shelley Hornsby

I'd love to tell you that
your words run deeply
Into my veins like blood.
Coursing, a river young in
it's life. That's what your
Words mean to me but hands on
Walls, feeling the cold hard
Familiar hardness, slaps
Me back to reality. Telling me
That the blockade runs
Tip to toe, a hand's breadth
Reminding me that your words
Are meant for other voices.
Sometimes, I remember, the light
Fading into the dusk, last sun on
Your brows, light on your smile
Feeling the laughter behind your
Humour at my ridiculous thoughts
And then I sit and listen to
your gold, pouring out
Of your heart, the magic touch
Of your fingers stitching out
Lines in an embroidered curve.
That's what your verse does to my
Mind, sinews of art trellising
Like scented flowers but then
Fingers spread on iced familiar
Stone reminding me that I'm
Forbidden to enter the fray
And those dream filled lines
Are a symbol to show me
That the blockade runs ever deeper
Impenetrably fortressed, to shut out
My words and standing, gazing
Into the night, I try to visualize
Your Fingers sweeping across the white
Your dreams, falling like snowflakes
Into my thoughts, sweeping me up in verse
But still, I am unable to touch and tell you
What your words have done to my heart.