What man would deprive his tongue,
enduring an unquenched thirst,
that devotion’s words might whet,
to salivate in silence?

Are there not notes to be sung,
lyrics injured poets write,
that might pay a faults’ debt,
and free his heart from violence?

Solitude he stands among,
in company of shadows,
filled with want his lungs might let,
made mute by shame’s defiance.

Suffering a life of one,
 that taciturn rue begets.

I wrote this poem as a Bref Double.