I'm a vow of silence,

                               that sings within.

Void less consciousness,

                 that grows between

the cracks.



Woven in bloodied tears,

              yet my features are
  parched like a desert wind.



I'm an illusion of self,
             cradled in the arms


of my own self doubt.

Hearts beat, still
when souls have been
stamped out

surrounded by plucked
flowers that have barely
bloomed

a garden of green stems
and sorrow is all that
is left

shattered glass that
pierces your flesh

a blood offering
is all that is left

for the light
in him
shall not
glow dim
but
give
him swift sanctuary
that
calm the gray storm
thus
give him the shield of faith
but
let him rest
through
the bread of heaven
and
not grow weary
in
the
arms of the almighty
if not
for the light in him
grant him assurance
yet
everlasting peace

No, I don't think,
when I write. My poem
finds its own words.

The thought
moves stealthily. You put
your hand on my hand.

Your eyes now
search the lost kingdom
of trembling nostalgia.

Will I remain
human? Living amidst
the burials? Do the dead
laugh?

Was there a casualty
at beach? You will not swim
nor drown, for becoming
a nightingale.

My eminent revere
was to live, waiting for
you!