When the body speaks.

The language I speak is seldom from the heart because
no-one taught me that.
Neurons are tuned to current news
as soon as they are born. 

There are two languages that speak through me:
the formal one my brain and tongue conspire,
together with a history,
and one other private one
that's me.

When the body speaks,
it's not brain and tongue,
larynx and voice-box
echoing idioms and idiots.

The body hungers, aches, angers and
pleasures each season and circumstance,
and lives joylessly, or carelessly,
or seeks the secret we call
love.

The heart is the one
real place,
reflected in the face,
no matter how good a liar
you are.

When the body speaks
it's different to the
patter and purpose of others.
It knows not something,
but everything.

We don't go there, easily, because the heart has something to say about
living and dying.
It's a language few want to learn.

When my body speaks,
I am surprised to learn that
the heart is feared more than the tongue's
temperature.
The two-edged sword isn't wanted
in a world of swirling words.

If humans have one heart that beats for all,
as I was taught,
and I think that this is true,
I look carefully at each and every face,
and consider how the core of you
goes on.

Some could easily toss this aside,
and say it doesn't add to anything real.
But I would say that when the body speaks,
that what you feel
has a way of hurtling through  heart,
past brain, tongue, langauge, learning
to places 
intended to heal.