On a Sunday night I return.
Dawn is coming.
I hear the fiery steps of Phoebus’s steeds in every tick of the clock.
Saccharine sweet bursts across my tongue like
blots of red ink on smooth paper
and
symphonies of silence.
We say more in our silences
than we do in our words.
The inadequate words make
frac tures
and
bre aks,
cause rifts
and damage all.
Glorious, symphonious symposiums of silence!
Silence in stasis – perhaps restorative, draining, cutting or bland.
Silence, container of myriad wonders.
Should I hope for good or bad?
Dawn is coming.
I hear the fiery steps of Phoebus’s steeds in every tick of the clock.
Saccharine sweet bursts across my tongue like
blots of red ink on smooth paper
and
symphonies of silence.
We say more in our silences
than we do in our words.
The inadequate words make
frac tures
and
bre aks,
cause rifts
and damage all.
Glorious, symphonious symposiums of silence!
Silence in stasis – perhaps restorative, draining, cutting or bland.
Silence, container of myriad wonders.
Should I hope for good or bad?
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