The screech is halted as a wound; it is tempered As voice, as a weathered bell, as the stone worn On a feathered toe; as we climb out of the well; To work its way as sound does, as the flippant Aerial word does; the air is trapped in a stone Lung and it is parched with yesterday, yesterday.
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Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 
Love the idea that voice is just a tempered scream…what does that make silence?
That is an easy one to answer in this context: silence would then be the title of the poem 🙂
🙂
A magnificent way to describe the undercurrent of silence 🙂
This is another one of those that wrote itself, rested a few weeks, and when let free, managed to surprise even me 🙂 Thanks Tammy.
I’m not surprised 🙂
🙂