The Yelling Hill

I am forging heavy letters constantly and I hope that you'll forgive me, friend, for stowing them in your spine. The space, tail to tip, between the vertebrae so cozied in your back, nestled between the big muscles, is just right for the notes I chisel of the hard coat of a lonely truth telling atop the yelling hill.

I pack my tools quietly and set off for the ridge where truths are screamed for a fee.  No level too loud and no explitive unwelcome, that hill knows the world's darkness perfectly.  There the most stubborn confessions are pounded out of the earth.

But to summit the hill and enter this freed space one must promise a silence elsewhere.  The liberty of speech here is contingent on the categorical neglect of such truths in the valleys and it's best for all who pilgrim here to observe the pact. 

Yet I wonder if you buckle when I pack your back with these things.  I wonder if I have brought sclerosis to your bones or wrought your tissue arthritic; is this knowledge, the yelling, a pathogen, or a weight you endure proudly?

Forgive me the insertion.  I know these bones can't really rediscover their shape.  The trees eye me similarly.  Its a long walk to the top and of course I know where these paths go so the trees observe my trek with a sad shake of their heads.  Even they mistake my walk for a fall.

Simply I want to know the spaces in your spine and if they are as full as the ones in mine and if, the weight also defines you.

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