To be heard
Is like neat gin,
Goes straight to the heart and
Warms it to a pitch
Unforeseen and heady.
How to know if
You are heard or
If your soul has
Fallen off the fruit bowl
To roll,
Bruised on the cold,
Flat floor.
No way of knowing
But the warmth of recognition
Has evolved as a transmission,
To be recieved,
Or not.
