I’m waiting to tell myself a secret.
A justification of sorts,
that I know something and won’t spit it out,
because it’s better for me.
I’ve enough sins,
to remain mute for the rest of my life,
perchance a heart that’s thawed,
the only conversation,
the only scorn and ridicule,
I impose on myself.
I’d much rather a heart moving,
full of perpetual remorse and regret,
than a tongue wagging,
comfortable in the ignorance of it’s flutter.
Wesam El dahabi