The reason that mutes the murmur of my lips
for the silence no one near me forgets
is the ******* of my heart.
Without knowing,
of what would it speak?
Filled with words,
the hollow cap peeks
into the muscles and bone.
Flesh for a kingdom,
thought for a throne.
The heaving poet sleeps
not sound,
not silent,
but there at 3:15.
Spilling his spiraling
tic toc dreams
between the pallid sheets.