It's midnight and the silence is speaking,
The silence is full of words, words interruped
By thoughts. The words expose themselves
To the wind out of my open window.
(I am on the third floor) I float off my bed
And to the open of the city, there beneath is
An Ashe tree under the yellow of the moon,
It seems to slow dance with the subtle
Beats of the nocturnal, a streetlight
Pulses. In the distance all is an orchestral
Silence as the city breathes, suddenly
Within the abyss inside me I feel a welling
A passion deeper than the unexpected lover,
I am paralyzed with words dropping me
I to the foliage of the unwritten, threading
A song like the electrical humm of the power
Lines, a hymn forms, a nocturnal lament,
I am alone with everything.....

2. I refuse the lamp at my desk, my body craves
The dead man's sleep. The silence grows bold,
It rises like a full moon in me, it grows louder
Suddenly the meadow is alive under some deep
Horizon, the moment is an awakening
Of words, the need like an insatiable appetite,
A sweat sets upon means a cool breeze
Kisses it's lament flowing into my very
Being. It is passion, the unchained melody
under the maestro's sky. I fathom the world
Around me, I cannot remember walking
To my desk.

3. The lamp light shatters the fragments
Of the night, they turn Into words as if
From the fleece of my flesh. All is the silence, every
Word pouring like a sea of ink crashing waves
To paper. The silver of the city reflecting,
The poem is not a poem but a confession
In the dark exploding syllables like
Secrets in a prayer. My hand is guided to
Paper and I cannot form a single word-

4.The melody is gone, only the idea of the dream
Survives reaching for a thought, it slips
My grasp, my own vanishes, the words
Disappear, the inklings gone: love,
Lust, live, life, lend, loop, locked? A prison forms around the words, my thoughts hover like vultures, the carcass
Was a poet Saint, he died of the thirst floating
In an ocean of words he cannot drink,
Salt in the mind. A sacrifice he was to the
Depths of thought, silence creeps in again ,
The Enourmous Night, inward, deeper
Into the soul, penetrating.....

5. The nocturnal presence returns, a flattering
Sorrow in the silence, the thoughts disappear,
I cut off my mind from the world,
Reality is dead and I killed it with the
Gesture of my pen,"I am here"
The silence kisses my lips, the gathering  inside
Myself thwarting any thought, the scorn
Of the verses sets my hand on fire,
My pen is the heat of the sun writing
On a slab of Jade, I am no longer me,
But the perpetual silence that birthed a poem,
The syllables are born and I am
A prisoner of words.