Enjoy

the Silence that old friend, that attic where the owls hoot and demons and groan
that place that creeps from all the minds and the organs moan
the rhymes that cackle like ladies lost and loves bygone - yes the rhymes of eternal damnation
in the emily space, the names that bounce, the heroes of significance - redundancy
much like the conversations.  from ever, from all, the conversations
they are not unique, bland casing from listless artillery
like the agonizing screams from an in surgery amputee
the rickety shack where would she be in a shanty town love den
she hides her poetry from and the peaceful string of recorded music
pours over my ears where I hear the pounding beat of my self-involvement
a heart so strong that it fears nothing of modern medicine nor fate
she calls and the enduring longing for the siren voice springs into nothingness

what does Silence say? that never ending nagging from the back of the mind
Silence that says so much, roaring like a dying lion bleeding into the serengetti
much like the sun screams in agony as it burns in the sky
where fury makes the energy, an absence should not be considered irrelevance
the anger in the night sky might be the howls from the human prison cells
or it could be the stars raging in the science of gods and universes

questions unanswered are the Silence of the mind, such a Silence again that tugs
Silence pulling from behind the ears and into the cerebral cortex
zoos of exhibition alight in the presentation
where the casting of thousands of captives under the warm disbursement of spotlights
brings the din of the animals to cacophonous roar
a roar, that sounds in the hissing and purring of all the cages
Silence bursting forth into the iris much like
impressionists who dared in abstract - losing hearing to madness
never consider that silence is not an arsenal with which one can win a war
the devastation of a emptiness can often collapse the soul like supernova

those raging bullets in the night that fire off nothing but hopelessness
those Silent piercings of the soul
they hurt much more than the overpowering ring from the chamber
those bullets that burst the vessels to shred an organ
the damage releases far more in that Silence: the dying organism
the sutured future which operates to end the power of hope
the quiet dying from the rageful ringing is far more powerful and disastrous
than any hymn or argument could settle

when the poem is done, i'll tell you it's done
when the words are complete i'm sure you'll be quick to tell me they are
but the dictionary is a never ending story
all the words that matter so much will become emotion
the sense of sensibility will be literal
the words will be the passionate call of the past
where people yearn for balconies and gloves and suns and cheeks
when we used to beg for the touch of one another, much that the words could matter
but what I feel is within, like the rest of us
and when that internal pyre climbs to heights of curiosity there is nothing to say
in Silence.