Your old life
was a frantic running from silence.

~Jelaluddin Rumi

You remember the tale,
the whisper
that made the wine cup clatter
to the stone and before
anyone could protest both
had left
a thousand obligations
and the shattered pieces
of their royal reputations
strewn like November leaves
down the windswept corridors
of their former, sensible selves.

Irresponsible, whirred the rumors
Irrational, hummed the mills
Unseemly! sputtered the sawdust
Un…kingly, huffed the council.

But nothing could be done.
They were gone.
And secretly each among the throng
longed to be
the whispered-to one
and wondered whether
what was in them was enough
to do what those whispered-to
knew suddenly they had to do.

First published by Subprimal Poetry Art, Issue I, “Visions.”

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