The artist’s brush

What we can’t say in words ,when we turn mute
The feelings blocked  may injure our own selves
When we cannot change the hateful truth

That Xmas dinner ignites  old disputes
Rage in our own breast may grow and swell
We can’t  express in  peace ,so we turn mute

The stronger brethren dominate and loot
While on the tower there rings the ancient bell
We see but cannot change that hateful truth

If  trauma were a plant we could uproot
To grow  red cyclamen and  leave this hell
Ah,stopped from speech , we turn  dead,  pale and mute

The long procession of the souls and ghouls
Wanders round the tower of lost Babel
We see but cannot change, who do we fool?

The  mind in pain will never be quite still
Breathing out the fear can make us well
What we can’t say in words ,when we turn mute
The artist’s brush may  best convey the truth