Irony for me, is a girl named Voice too choked up on words to speak
Life long lessons shot out them baby blues like a beam
Taking in all spoken directly, as if laid at her own feet to weep
In her world, when let in, she sings; “sorry about the mess”
I confess
Discrete impressions
Quietly caught between that which she has
Yet undone
Everything came before
Her essence run
In solace cohesion
No longer harboring margins & lines
Noting her felt experience
Seasoned by time
Fed with feeling
Drunk on resonant healing
Pouring forth perspective liberally
No more ironic than I am she