The Mute Man

There was once the story of the mute

His name had been unknown, but his voice that of a flute

Any points he made were moot

For suspicion of himself was afoot

He went to the church when he was free

Over the chapel hung the branch of a birch tree

The birds he saw filled him with glee

And yet he could never scream

He thought of himself as cursed

Had been throat been dry, or his mannerisms rehearsed?

Why had the Lord made him silent?

Why had the struggle to simply speak been so violent?

However could be speak,

When he had been made to be so meek?

Then, one day, he spoke

It had been within his dreams, just before he woke

He shed a tear, for he had been broken

For all that had been said, was already spoken

Soon the world would know of his tale

For with a pen and nothing but his thoughts

His mind had been as rich as a shale

And he intended on ending this drought

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