There is a message
In which I am rendered quite incapable of sending.
Too much of my soul spilling in ink and ether.
I spend my days feeling the pulse of time.
It occupies an expanse, blank and austere.
Time melts and drips into forgotten sands
That have become intoxicatingly melodious.
I drift through oceans of sleep.
When shall it be time?
I fear I far too much enjoy
The solitude which frantically screams
To ensure I listen to its maddening silence;
The many eyes intruding, irreverent.
And thus I walk amidst the haze
Of passing suns and moons,
As vapor, heavy and vexatious
Arrives to occupy my vacated mind.
Connection is difficult.
For when I gaze at such passersby
I look upon the architecture;
The stones of sacred construct
Catalyzing empires of beauty.
The opening channels of awareness
Leave me vulnerable
And often unapproachable.
For I become inarticulate,
Withholding and timid.
I swim in silence for ages
Forgetting I possess a voice.
For beings which are limbs
Of immaterial bodies
Perplex me in a mystery.
The tone of ancient words
Sailing beyond language
Leave me without breath,
And I wonder if they notice.
And for a particular one,
This incomprehensible connection
Guides me to the edge of the world;
The peaks which gaze upon the earth
And provide the echo
My fading voice would need
To send such a message.
Yet incapable I am rendered,
Too much of my soul spilling in love and ether.
And so I continue in the pulse of time,
Dripping into sands of sleeping
Until I could awaken,
And breathe a steady air
Over this tremulous vibration
So my elaborations could exist.
And as I drift through oceans of sleep,
I dream of emerald and laughter
Longing to end my silence.


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