The Unsaid Thank Yous

There is an account to be made

There are debts to be paid

The price is fat; it lies in our hearts in parts

The rubies that were never sold out,

Even after it has been bought

Though as rare rocks they are sought.

Could it be the price, of the customers, that was so unreasonable?

Or the vendor's stingy scowl, way unbearable?

What is left with a man, when his heart has difficulty in utterance?

Could it be our lips that are so slow?

Or perhaps our hearts that are too cold.

We find no rest when our heads are laid to rest

For our chest are swelled with unsaid thank yous

Which burdens our hearts at night

And darkens our days at noon

It wrestles against our conscience

And misinterprets our dreams

Giving us thousands of reasons to rationalise.