Words may often fail me,
heeding innocuous temper;
a boldness within my soul,
which, by its own standards,
would forgive feign reasoning,
and by design, be uttered as sigh.
This thought then is not bold,
but tempered steel now wrought,
that, by its incarnation, ’tis hurried;
and with abandon, flees from lips,
as bartered voice, breaking silence,
’til the words become my very breath.