selective silence

There's a wasteland in my throat,

a desert of ice and snow

frozen over and stealing the sound,

cushioning it in its soft blows

of white cotton clouds.

Shut down the vocality of my vice

suffer from lack of communication,

a gift before my communion,

I do not lack words I lack the voice to give them

meaning.

My tongue is an icicle

my tonsils acidicly blue,

the inability to speak given

by wine I refuse to drink.

A shame I hide well

but cannot hide in conversation. 

My throat closes over, I lose the ability

to find myself in verses, in poems, in speech

all I have is hands that are no longer ink stained

only blood from papersharp pages

and a grasp of sign language that extends to 

I love you

but not back.

The effects of it last past the freezing storm

staying stark and red as the blue fades

the icicles melting to show holes their spikes

made and laid in

so similar yet so strange.

I cannot speak for fear,

 but it can speak for me.

The knowledge is what --whowherewhenwhy-this-fear-permeates-the-paradise-I've-built-- evades me.

Am I scared of wine? Of verses? Of pain?

Is that what prevents my throat from thawing?

Or is it the fear of imagined sin,

spilling from my lips like blood-tinted gin

bravery, courage all pulled into one

to a final vice that will make me undone?

I know not what silences me,

only that I am.

I know not what causes this frost,

only that it has a cost.

Shall I have the guts to pay?

Or will Your alter take me today?