Grass blew south in a hurry past wind chimes. 
the sun had drawn back hours ago.

Casper lay in bed, passing time as he usually did.

he formed words that weren’t quite ideas
and names that didn’t have faces.

phonetic failures.

Casper lost himself in imagination

like a thin veiled formation of stars
that told a story that didn’t quite make sense.

Casper had been prescribed sleeping pills
because he would cry about the birds that have given their feathers to his pillows
he whispered apologies that weren’t quite “I’m sorry”
each time he pulled out a feather.

While mourning each loss of something seemingly weightless in the night,
He’d hear his parents shouting. 

He’d get so mad that he’d bury his face in his pillow 
So low, that harsh voices sound more like muffled 
off rhythm bass lines, than a communication freeway. 

Casper was a mute.
The amalgamation of a stubborn tongue and an unwilling mind
Casper couldn’t call forth words. 

Note Self:

Essentially, Voices often tool to hurt.
Combine with the theme of growing up and growing strong
The silent one is the one who loves. 
—– Find the love—– find the violence in phonetic sounding words.
Onomatopoeia ** Bloodlust <–