If I could write a poem with the words that go unsaid, 

how would it begin and how would it end? 

Would the words that go unsaid be eventually overturned, 

like rocks that beckon the river’s edge gliding over by touch of my hand? 

Would the words that go unsaid twist and turn into altered forms, 

like the caterpillars that once squirmed on the leaf, flying effortlessly through the sky? 

Would the words that go unsaid lose their meaning and eventually die, 

like the loves of old that once held your heart, now forgotten in your mind? 

Or would the words that go unsaid find rest upon your ear, 

like the baby who takes the trip from womb to breathed air?

If I could write a poem with the words that go unsaid, 

would you read the blank page and know exactly what it said?