Usually in control

The boss of my own words

Expression has never been

A weak-point

Quite the contrary;

Making words dance

Is an art I take pride in

Not really difficult to –


My friend loses a loved one.


The right time to substantiate

All those messages of hope

That you relentlessly preach


Where are those precious words now?

Where is your supposed control

To comfort a loved one?

Powerless in the face of death

Standing still, gone mute,

An art chiseled over the course

Of five years, disintegrated

The word plate scrubbed clean.


That’s when I realized

That sometimes

The only thing anyone can do

Is give someone a hug.


– Original-Dante ©2016


Photograph by: scheinbar

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