Sometimes silence is a comfortable place,
A place for silent contemplation,
Yet it can also hold a deafening roar,
To fulfill self condemnation,
A place where butterflies fly about,
Or a place with screams that none can hear,
A place where dreams are something real,
Or a place of silent fear.
With silent contemplation,
Answers are sometimes found,
While the force of realization,
In our minds causes sound,
When immersed alone in silence,
Is it imagination that we hear,
Or is it just an echo of,
The discoveries that we fear.
We might look across a landscape,
The only sound in our minds,
Do our hearts install a soundtrack,
When there’s no sound for us to find,
Silence can emphasize a point,
Or be the method to our madness,
Does it add or take away,
To the sound of our own sadness.
Emotions are something we can’t see or hear,
Yet we all know they’re something real,
Are sounds provided by heart or mind,
Or just echoes of what we feel,
If we close our eyes and think,
Are those thoughts a silent place,
Or do they carry their own sounds,
That our lives can not erase.
Silence might signal and ending,
Yet it can also reveal a start,
While in our heads we can hear,
The beating of our own hearts,
Can we associate a sound,
With something that we feel,
Making something we can’t see,
Have substance, be something real.
Silence can be the accompanying sound,
To our pleasure or to our pain,
Sounds that play inside our heads,
For what the heart seeks to attain,
A heart may search through darkness,
And in it’s search not make a sound,
But love can exist in silence,
And with you it’s what I’ve found.