Silent are days,
Loud as the sun,
Soothing is night,
On threshold of dream,
Winsome as water mists
Raining from futures past,
Tasteless are delicacies,
Whipped up for myself,
Hard are the noises of birds
As they carol, carrying on,
Cold is the shade of trees,
As they do grow and leave,
In my house, so final, open,
Locked from all joys of day,
Rooms engulf as they hush
My crushed, unfelt body
That aches for another
And reaching smothers,
For books are as bricks,
From a ruined temple
Such knowledge—
Doled out in whisper,
Writings to decipher,
On sealed stones,
In my tomb.