Long Reach of Silence
Lost in the dark, tangled in silken threads
skeleton fingers of old wounds
leaving empty spaces between lunacy
and distorted visions of obsidian darkness.
Mourning in cobalt skies of midnight hours
forest becomes enemy of old torments,
stones knead blisters on quivering feet -
confusion of illusions in dress of doom.
Muted energy splinters along my trail
unraveling nerves in soupy congealed mist,
rough sands of time lingering in deep recesses.
cracked jars of pain hang breathless from limbs
Fist of night pummels in long reach of silence
eroding numbness fading into nothingness.
a crashing, crushing soliloquy absorbing
intensity between shadow and soul.
Silence is something that you feel,
when a hungry beggar is sitting in front of you,
but you have too little money with you
and you choose to have your meal.
You weren't too right though,just think, were you?
Silence is something that you hear,
when you know you have to put up a smile
just to show that you are not fragile,
but everywhere within you it's just - fear.
You then are not too strong either, just think, are you?
Silence is something that you realize,
when you want to fight for the bigger one,
but have nobody to relish the smaller one,
so you decide to have the pizza pieces alone - you were wise.
You do feel it, think again, don't you?
Thief; of echoes, of sound I make:
throat caked with honey and wine,
I did not know,
I did not expect to meet:
a thief in the night.
Where else would car echoes have gone?
Have all the birds flown away?
And to return, another day,
when the sky is cleared, but grey.
And the sun shines, but not here.
No alarm, no shutter, no click of newly-polished brogues:
I am awake when the attendance was called
And nobody answered.
The sun has set,
The moon has closed in on itself,
The stars are sheltered by obstinate clouds.
If my ears had lashes and pupils, and specks of gold within them;
I would not need to turn a picture upside down,
nor look upon a grandfather's face,
to know that it is midnight:
Light tastes, spoken, broken
I see nothing in molasses brown,
I have shattered the sky,
And the stars rain down,
but they are invisible to the eye.
So, when you ask why I am running too fast,
From the starry night.
I am running because of nothing;
To hear the beating of my heart.
It must have come slowly,
Seeping in from every crack,
I didn't even notice,
When it trickled down my back
It was waiting for me at the door,
As I opened it one day,
It was too late then I realised,
As Silence was here to stay
The voices in my head were quiet now,
The sounds of the world had ceased
Silence had the last word,
And I knew I was deceased.
silence is a library filled with books
books as blank as soulless eyes.
silence is a library by some other name
the librarian raises his finger as he looks
if no one can speak, then nobody lies
but pursuit of truth in quiet is a losing game.
silence is fingers, clamping down
on crying babies' mouths and a teenager's frown.
silence is pain of the most acute kind
a deep, mournful stench like a rotten rind.
silence is a library, encouraging you to be still.
silence is only oppression, a line in a fire drill.
silence, you're talking too loud
words scream off the paper,
and that's not allowed.
silence, your head is not right
you'd be better off
if you were unable to write.
hands chopped off at the limb and mouth sewn shut
silence is a library but there are no books,
only knives waiting to cut.
only bindings of flesh and bone,
waiting for another word
to claim as their own.
The Suitor the Shooter and the silent auction
"Silence suits me just fine. Say no more.
If so inclined. Your silence speaks volumes Simon. Thought it reeks of falsehoods. Anyone can see.
It’s just part of a costume. Clearly biting your tongue feels so wrong. It’s exhausted you. At what cost Mr Mayhues?"
A quick gloss I’d thought. Before the swords cross. And a war of words is launched. I didn’t toss my hat into the ring a lot. I did speak up when the pot called me a kettle black. Confirmed by a tip of my hat. Only a childish fool gets goaded into a lesser gentlemen’s spat. Disarming loaded questions. Without hesitation. No more tit for tat spats. Far from that.You don’t gotta be a mime to figure it out. Stoping short. Miss quoting. You got ghosted dually noted. Loose lips sink ships. So pipe down or we will trade more than quips. Your swimming with sharks now Drip. Sync or swim against the current and get your fins clipped.
"What was that Drip?"
Replied Mr. Simon Mayhues. Opening up and taking the offensive. Repeating oneself being so contentious.
A Foreign Force
Still not right.
is pressing down
Twisting my throat,
Covering my lips,
Keeping all air out
My lungs bloat,
My tongue trips,
And I know without a doubt-
It is back.
That invisible thing,
That creeps and crawls and springs
Into everything around it
And forces us to submit.
And once it comes
(And it always comes
It controls us
Though we never discuss
For holding it at bay
Just in case it may stray
And upon us set its gaze
We try to stave it off
With a cough and a scoff
And it works-
But just for a while
A much-too-short while
Before it again descends
Our ability to speak
From us limb to limb, wing to beak
I hope you never fall prey
As I was lead astray-
It is never good to be alone
When control of your voice is not your own.
silence is an old friend of mine,
who visits at the best and worst of times;
it cocoons me in its immense, bare bliss
or torments me with its echoing abyss
silence commands utter reverence;
it will either bring you down to your knees
or drift you up to utopia with its attendance
sometimes it sounds like a prayer,
its feverish whirr chanting for decree
or it sounds like a damning curse,
quietly deranging until sense disperses;
silence is an old enemy of mine
its meaning often refusing to be defined
my protector when nothing would defend
a weapon, relishing its ability to snare
silence either hums along rhythmically
or roars and wrecks about destructively;
upon its return, I can always depend
whether it determines to save or slay me
drowning me in its endless depths
or redeeming me in a quiet death
at least I know it will always be
silence is sometimes a lonesome world
but it is often where genius whirls
though odd, it is an answer in itself
as well as the question quietly knelt
silence is a distance, savage and cold
or a journey of love and enlightenment
silence sure is a spectacle to behold
in all forms, it's filled with entitlement
Nothing Is Unstable
Silence is a vacuum, absolute,
Noiseless and empty and resolute;
What's heard in silence cannot be unheard,
Filling all space, demanding to be heard.
Sonic oscillations can be tricked
By quivers' reverse of arithmetic;
Equal and opposite noises are commutative,
Cancelling what's tympanicly reverberative.
Is hearing the silence hearing twice as much
As what's there, but unheard as such?
Are we really all alone in quietude?
Or are we merely the opposite of another's solitude?
Is it gossamer cacophany?
Collapsing in singlarity?
Is it really reality's lull,
Or are we merely the final sound at all?