Last night I found myself wandering
To a place I never had been,
A place unknown by most everyone
And with the eyes of the heart, unseen.
It was a fortress, of sorts, looming and large,
Chilling my soul to the core,
But it was too late to turn back now,
Too late to hide anymore.
I pulled open the heavy, massive door,
Which creaked as the light filtered through
To reveal a vast, dark library,
The origins of which no one knew.
The old, dusty books were wedged in tight
With seals not easily broken,
The title on every book was the same-
“The Volumes of the Unspoken”
I stared, amazed, at this curious vault,
Wondering what all it might hold.
Then, pulling a book down from the shelf,
Found the answer in stories untold.
The book told of feelings kept inside,
Of truths never uttered out loud.
A lifetime of silences chronicled there,
All wrapped in a hardcover shroud.
I read with dismay at the love that was lost,
The apologies that never were made,
Opportunities wasted, questions unanswered,
Friendships given away.
I picked up another book, then another,
Wanting each one to forget,
But book after book, they were all the same-
Page after page of regret.
“I’m sorry”, “I love you”, “You’re important to me”
Like a prisoner’s song never heard.
Every persuasion that should have been shared
Tucked away in this tomb of words.
The last book I picked up read like the rest
But with dialogue I should have known.
I shuddered when I read the cover’s fine print-
The author’s name was my own.
With great trepidation, I read it again,
Wanting only to look away,
But I couldn’t ignore what I knew all too well-
All the words I chose not to say.
I stared at the pages for hours, it seemed,
Longing to turn back the time,
To say all the things that I should’ve said
And erase these cursed lines.
To see it all down in black and white
Drained the life from my soul within
And I cried ‘til the tears would come no more
Over all that might have been.
At long last I saw something I hadn’t before-
There were pages in the back unfilled.
My life not yet lived and the contents would be
Determined by my own free will.
Maybe it wasn’t too late for me
To say what I might have said.
A small spark of hope lit in my heart,
Clarity after too long misled.
My silence had written many pages, indeed,
As this book had so cruelly kept score,
But from that day on, I put down the pen
And I vowed to write no more.
Slamming my book shut, I turned to the door,
Ready to start living out loud.
Then, leaving this mausoleum behind,
I set forth to make good on my vow.
To let my words flow like water, quenching dry souls,
So that another heart won’t be broken,
And, God help me, I’ll no more contribute to
The Volumes of the Unspoken.
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