In trying we do
Between the lines
Sits silence
In the lines
Is foam
I prefer my silence punctuated
For silence is not stillness
But a vacuum
If not for birdsong and conversation
The hum of a radio
Turned off is alchemy
To a dark room
And silence can be good shared
When two people know how
To wear their surroundings
But silence alone
Can be a grand shadow
Or an echo
Of that great silence
Of which we do not speak
And from silence
Inner noise is born
And from noise
Inner silence
And at the nadir
Is a point of precarious bliss
That in naming
Disappears
And names
Are the clothes
Of form
But what is form
If it is unnamed?
And what is silence
Without song?
The blank expression
Of a whisper
In the night
From the inner ear
Of dream
Amidst
The pressing gloom
A late winter thaw
That produces the dew
Or the yellow rising
Of another sun
On the tail of
An everlasting night,
Or something.
Comments
Post a Comment