There is a quiet conversation
we hold between our ribs;
the dialogue of flesh and spirit.
Most have heard it once or twice.
Some don't know its timbre.
Others find themselves in the woods,
knee deep in a creek's cold waters,
and their bones begin to echo
the angels in the wind.

I finished a book yesterday.
I'm gonna start a new one, soon. And waiting for more ones.

Books are great, really.
They kind of hide you.
    They hide from exactly what ever you want.
Maybe it's your family.
Or your past.
Or everything, which is a very wide department, but very true.

But the book I was talking about.
I got it. I really did.
And it was about this boy. This boy who saw everything, and nothing.
      I got the book.

"Has poetry saved lives?"
   Maybe.
"How would you know?"
   I don't.
"Then why even answer?"
   I have hope.
"Hope for what?"
   Hope that it hasn't.
"Oh."