Language is soft on those nights.
The ones when I’ve sat empty, waiting.
The words come as whispers,
Tiny and illicit.
I hope for a way into the Dream.
But hoping isn’t action.
That’s when she comes.
The Black Angel.
You know her
The one who sits
on your shoulder
giving soft courage
in the hard doubt.
Her eyes are closed.
She hums. She spears the
Critical voice with her warrior knife.
The one that she won.
She is a fighter, that angel.
She is.
Her wings drip with little words
That only she can read.
It’s the ancient language
Of dreamers.
I am a dreamer.
My language is soft.
July 3
Ceeairrahwithac 