Their words are dancing around the edges
The edges of my molten volcano.
They tiptoe and flutter, never really feeling the scorching heat
Of what it is truly like living beside it, in it’s shadow.
They dance around it, trying, it’s true, to touch
And understand.
Their words are trying to be a balm,
To protect me from the burning, but it is coming through.
Their words, those words, these words,
Are there, hanging above our heads, hovering, vibrating,
Silent.
These people are talking, I’m sure, but they are silent.
They are silent and I am not listening.
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