To speak of the silent voice
would be to be laid bare
as the world glares on
gavel in hand ready to slam downwards
passing sentence to another

Imagine thyself
encapsulated in the looking eye
gavel dissolves with a heart melt
pondering their weary woes of ticking time past

Tear trickles your consciousness
meandering through vascular alleyways
no longer bound by piercing sight
but flourishing in a garden of unconditional compassion