Sometimes Silence is a Lie.

it drains the lake, it does... it siphons the symphonies.
it bleaks the speech, unbridled
from a long mute, to a mutiny. the mute in me ~
would rather, but we'd rather knot.
null reprisals, highly prize super nova
in the Scotia of our scathing
plight.

no other might. but...
we'll do what the light won't
in the dark night.
we'll trouble the cube. each of us, the rube
in tomorrow's ****...
the Thumb
in the oyster of an ill quiet
where the Lord of Prayers
Errs the attempt
to split Heirs.

We inherit the wind
and a breeze.
And a breeze will ****
a Windmill

straight fair.

but not for the lack of peace.
but the fog of war.

at the very least.