.
.
I can type in a cadence,
While I write some prose
Yet it is seen all in print or pixels,
What voice is given those?

I’m New York City born and raised,
Yet by southern women bred,
But rarely either of those things known
The first time my words are read

You don’t hear the rapid staccato
Of my native Harlem streets
Or when it’s breathy and drawled
Like a Carolina belle so sweet

But yet you hear me

No, my voice is then a rolling brogue
Or a clipped Queen’s English call
Or Any language that wants to be dVerse
Wait, do you know any Klingon at all?

Because for all my written verbiage
There is one major limitation
My voice is solely in province
Of you, the reader’s imagination

This when anger ravages, my throat’s rawness is real
When heartache tears my soul asunder, I choke then
Stillness brings my silence, while silliness peals laughter
And you know this, though not one word is spoken

Ah, but yet you hear me

Yes, you hear me

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Meeting The Bar ~ Hearth, Home and Common Speech