The silence is tight and creeping in
it is thick with a permanent taste
it's perpetually there on infinite levels of volume

Death dances along its borders
death echoes along,
chanting the vibration
over and over
it is there
stuck in white space forever
it's the open, unread letter

it's the absolute absence
left when the summer subsides
when the sun knows
it's leaving it's flowers out to die

upon the edge of my mind
on the view of the void,
flowers will flourish
to the simplest joy

Where faeries can dance
to the silk of their voice
But forget the things
children will wish for

There is a flower that stands atop of my grave
that sits patiently for water
every Saturday
I inform to you that you remove it;
and its silent melody
before I decompose
into something more beautiful
than the dirt I've grown to be

I think I may get better
I remind myself as I should.
as I should remind myself of those who would cry the oceans to sleep
and those who whisper to the wind the heaviest burdens to let them burn free
and flying seagulls that can not reach the
aching shore.

I'm the silent metaphor
from sunny, Sunday afternoons
after calling each one of your friends, and
laughing about how you're going to die today

Oh how the flowers are giggling in dragging days
Yes, I'm going to die today

The things a blank canvas does to my mind
is something even books will not confide
with these things drawing into my head
there are ways to die
but not without a silent metaphor
to take your place
but not today.

Oh the silent Sundays on a Saturday