Poetry

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The things they speak;without voices they may
weep,or within themselves can keep,thoughts that walk and stay alivstay alive;inside the mind they thrive,until they
thrive until they slumber relaxed in number,are
woken up by claps of thunder;so rude when hollow
sounds intrude,noise spells out its own demise;
and and silent thoughts may look about,and really
hear what means come out;Life may give itself away
anytime calls to-day,it speaks without a moving
thought;eyes that sleep can see thee deep,a longing
for where THE HEAVEN'S ARE,become awake where death
can't spake,who's lost, not Faith;never too be late,
Joe.

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