Vapor

Oh, if only my words could say
All that my heart wished to confess,
Perhaps than would come a day
When my burdened heart could rest.

Why is it that this heart of mine
Is so painfully tangible,
Pounding molten passion through my chest,
And forcing my soul to heave relentlessly
At the sight of hope and misery?

And still to know that such suffering is real,
And to have so much to say
With so many things to believe in,
Yet have only this mere arsenal of hot vapor,
That vanishes in the heavens
Long before it can find its cause;

And even if an Angel finds
my prayer of condensation,
Caresses it, and holds it close to her bosom,
Guiding it safely to its destination,
Scars of torment will always
Speak louder than words.

So why than, should I have a conscience
That is so real I can feel it cracking my skull,
If my existence is nothing more
Than a hot fume that has stirred
So many great heroes, But
Done nothing on its own consensus?

The beast who knows nothing of words
Has done more good
Than the Scholar who has read
And heard of agony, but acted not,
For his words no nothing of rudimentary success,
And only of sophisticated, intuitive, and analytical
Nothingness.