Vaut-il mieux parler ou mourir?
Words so often catch on the verge of my lips, and slip
On the same efflux of breath that bids you goodnight.
In the dead air, you would find the profession of sober discretion.
And still, it neglects to indulge avid cravings to divulge.
Implicit at best, the tangible is genuine in surreptitious existence.
And so, my breath is wasted on the path of least resistance.