Holding the note

It hangs as an outpost dispensing sympathy,
indolent in its accident;
bandaged up as a whipping post
      for those out of uttering,
      for those out of hearing,
      for those out of tune.

It nods to those willing to draw up;
to yoke themselves up to the unknown
where time pieces lose credibility;
where waiting just becomes.

You halted in your progress, to speak
into its innards.

Being here, you said, is not to be known;
when being denied speech like a dulled beacon
throttled in an attempt to transmit,
      is to be rejected
      by a web of wasteland
ring-fenced by a ribbing of mountains.

To look up close, you said,
      is to listen;
to be up close
      is to be heard.