Almost silence.
What am I to do with it?
Is it worth a second look?
As it is, entire night’s
are barely distinguishable.
. . . . .
What am I to do with the quiet urgency of this uncertain hour?
. . . . .
I, in a voice of shyness, could push into it.
The candle’s awkward flame – its colours, throw me off balance.
Its perpetual fire punctuates this progressive silence.
Out of necessity a level of serious-mindedness bluff's itself forth.
. . . . .
Night draws tighter still.
I, in my speechlessness, tremble.
. . . . .
Much later you awake
to everything as you'd left it.
. . . . .
A table laid out with pen and paper.
Chairs, like the streets, sit empty.
Words hang in temporary spaces.
. . . . .
The candles flame ceases
as the day regains its form.
Fostering alternatives, the mind,
with its unexpected movements,
struggles to liberate the emotions.
. . . . .
The heart exerts itself –
how strange its weather.
Focus shifts to what is said,
as gestured in its poetic pulse.
Solemnly the mind sweats
in an effort to decipher
what it is the heart knows,
what it is it is trying to tell,
what it feels for sure.
. . . . .
In the end, patient beginnings prove useful.
. . . . .
Venturing out into another hour,
the mind stumbles upon a pair of wings.
Somewhere between arriving and fleeing
certain similarities reassemble themselves,
promising nothing less than what is conveyed –
something born at the right moment,
something differentiating it from the next.
Its sacred silent form, a voiceless thread
that eventually slips gracefully away
with a just momentum, until it breaks
to yet another stop. Airless, it becomes
as precious as a stone whose intrinsic nature
reflects only a part of what breathes beneath
the surface of things deliberately hidden.
