The sounds the tongue shapes to bare the secret self
are snared in the space between conception and birth.
Most stillborn in the silence between us.
The survivors, mere wraiths behind the ego's wary masks,
the armour of convention shrinking them to a close cousin of the lie.
How I dream of the day the heart's truth shines
in every word You hear from me.
So you could love me for who I really am.
