The West Can't Hear You Weep

A task for the mind,

is to let them know what they've ment.

Known are your bridges burned 

by those that have harnessed their sundered scent.

Emotions pen this abjected sentence,

withholding its tirade against its treason.

The West can't hear you weep,

its coffins are authored by deafened lessons. 

Read the writing,

receive the letters never sent.

Wasted are these words,

sealed by a longing with a forgotten reason.

Clouded vision, on a broken hope for Sol to sleep,

with this visit, sit-next-to-me under alba leaves. 

Broach the distance—damn, the inbetween,

covered tracks, silence tells what secrets keep.

This parting flight, ov ascensive thought:

"Our meeting's done, as the closeness, gone."