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Leonardo J Mar 2016
Sialia, O Sialia,
how I yearn to hear from thee,
If silence be golden,
how rich hath thou made me?
Copyright © L.J.M 2016

cliché
Leonardo J Mar 2016
I drove you home thinking how about how much I did not want the night to end,
It was quiet, save for the ambient noise as we drove through the freeway,
I glanced over at you, your face, your thoughts,
a  mystery.
You said to me “Do you ever just listen to the silence?”
and then suddenly it was as if I was in a special place,
a special place I only knew of,
a secret chamber I retreat to,
and yet you so effortlessly walked into it,
perhaps you already knew of this place,
perhaps you already knew of the silence,
perhaps you had been there far before I had,
these thoughts raced through my  head,
I replied to you after a few seconds of reflection,
“yes, I do listen to the silence”
you bring warmth and comfort to me when I am in your presence. I understand,  I understand the bluebird must fly away.
Leonardo J Mar 2016
I must go from this place,
away from the people and things I know,
away from the comfort and security,
I want to know more,
I want to love more,
I want to get homesick,
I must not stay here,
staying here I cannot know more,
staying here I cannot love more,
Staying here in the center of my security,
I’ve developed blind spots that thrive in my vision,
I want to miss you,
I want to burn,
And so I must go,
Far away so that my eyes may look back,
and see it all in full splendor,
all that I still do not appreciate,
all that I take for granted,
all that I betray,
all that I've left behind,
all that I’ve forsaken in my oblivious conformity.
Leonardo J Mar 2016
The Cheshire moon smiles down on me tonight.
I’m completely out of synch with this cycle,
once again in the trough of the ever oscillating wavelength of life,
of emotion, of shifting energies, of morphing shadows casted upon by the apathetic celestial bodies who glide along through the heavens with such certainty, such staunch punctuality
as to give hope where there is none,
to know the sun will rise,
to know with certainty, with utmost faith that the moon will fall,
that the biting cold in the still night will turn into golden rays of illumination and warmth in a mere few hours,
a transformation that if somehow seen for the first time, would constitute as a miracle.
Apathetically they trudge along in their formations repeating their cosmic dances into eternity, the hands of the clock, casting shadows which decree time as we know it;
we kneel before the laws set forth, faithful and non believer, criminal and saint, man and women, there is no question of fealty,
for all subscribe to the church of time,
the tracking of shadows,
the calendar of Gregory.
The shadows smile at me tonight, but I don’t smile back.

— The End —