mmmdclxxxviii

The Proclamation

What a pickle, this
blur of words swirling
around his hair stacked
so asymmetrically upon
his odd-shaped head. 

A flock of fine and 

noble words, they

were, too, and he
without a voice. He 

tried to cough, as

an alternative, or to

blow out a word or 

two, but even that

was not possible.

It produced nothing

audible, nothing with

the least vibration, and

now he wanted nothing
more but to whimper.
And as the tears rolled
silently down the odd-
angled cheeks of his
strangely shaped head
he got so frustrated
that he just about
burst, soundless as

it all was.  He could

not even whisper, the 

poor dear young fool.
He’d try, oh yes,
he’d try, but yet,
the best descrip
tion an observer
might give each
attempt, well,
the man was
breathing so
of course his
desperate
attempts to
speak at
closest
observation
looked like
nothing save
mere exhalations.
His lips moved
this way just a
bit and then the
other way, but
those were some
thin lips, hardly
registering notice.
Oh, if he could but
proclaim, he thought,
why, he’d proclaim
these voiceless ex
halations a cool,
swift breeze. A
wisp of a fellow,
our dear voiceless
chap was, such that
even a soft breeze
might blow him
clean away to
the next county
or beyond. He
was voiceless, but
he wasn’t stupid, and
this fair fact he knew,
and hence his wish,

his impossible decree;

it wasn’t just his
proclamation, but 

the very reason for 

it. All thought for
naught, of course,
for our dear man
had stood here 

from the top of

the day, trying

like mad to 

find the only

thing of

which he

felt was of

any matter:

his voice.