“Whereof one cannot speak…

She searches oceans of soft summer;
time’s broken shards (smothering) fall.

The kindle of creation lingers heavy
in a room of euthanised potential;
a dichotomy of lies and being steady
in the heart of loss and love essential

The spirit’s eyes run down hills of green
to valleys deep of squalid pride
to spectate ****** crying eyes seen
regorging lifetime’s soulless glitter magnified.

And, now: grace and smoke pitilessly drown
the sullen, unrestrained flight of winter birds.

She moves like diamond gusts of wind
cracking cordial waves. Therein, wistfully:
a chaos reflecting mirror that is pinned
to a crystalline mask etched ‘Corpus Christi’.

The models of mankind will then find solace
upon crumbling, depraved ruins of punishment;
locking natures and propensities in flawless
shrouds. She is screaming noise and banishment.

The sixth day’s seventh sun rises
And she drops like flies buzzing
in bottled and beguiled life.
It hits granite.

Sweet shards spread through time.
A putrid stench laminates innocence
as Fall’s bleeding leaves flood
the ensnared luminosity and
velvet, supple breeze of Summer’s
soft, scintillating breath.

…thereof one must be silent.”
- Ludwig Wittgenstein