The Silence Spoke My Name

                                                            Once you hear, you'll understand. How everything has a voice if you listen hard enough.

If you try to discern the difference between a rainbow and a grave, they tell you in their broken ways, speak their names, much like a child would who recently learned their name. The babble in between is easier to pick out, but the things which really mean something are wrapped around your neck like an unwanted scarf of information, that muffles your words and makes breathing difficult.
    They sing to me, when I'm down.
    They sing tales of happier days, tell me everything will turn out okay in the end, and if it doesn't seem like it now, then think twice. Because the more you doubt, the longer        it'll take to fix itself, and disturb your sense of right and wrong.
Tones slide against my skin and face, cleansing me of my negativity like cooling droplets, carrying with them my worries and impurities in a way rivled only by treason and sins effect. Like custard, the sweetness rides down my throat from the heartbeat; I open my mouth, rushing feverishly like the flood rushed the iron gates as the draw back.                Softness and serenity dance with one another, while bitterness opts to cheat on fear with greed and gluttony,
    the orgy's completed as doubt leaves with a rush, not wanting to intrude on the sugary couple's sticky sweetness.
The pipetted sour taste leaves and swirls when I eject the mouthful from my lips,
and in the absence,
I can't help it.
I ask for more, please.