Being heard

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.

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