Silent insults.
Mere murmurs of my lingo.
Lingering, on the substructure of every page I turn, each ode I write.
It is not understood, the damage.
The placidity of every monotonous remark.
Unknown.
Untouched.

And I dare be angered.
Just think,
Me,
Myself,
Caught off guard by an ignorance that I am all too familiar with.

I will not find fault.
No.
Not in these associates.
Only myself.
And as grace have it,
Let some conqueror comprehend this desire.

 
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