Silence, like a glass thrown up in the air
Then exploding, its shards like a nagging echo
Raining on a heart, and it's so unfair
To bleed for love that is not there... Is there,
Through this weary way of silence, I must go.

I would turn around then I would not turn around,
Your smile and glances preserved in my mind,
And in my heart, reenacting in the sweetest sound,
The dreamed embrace, the joy missed, the love undefined
Through this weary way of silence, I would find.

With my eyes abandoned of you, fixed ahead
These weary feet, to nothingness may be led
But at least now with a direction to go,
One major burial,  strange, a final song in my head
Through this weary way of silence, I know.

I've seen this before, a walk of nowhere to go
But perhaps, a bluer mojo rain shall fall for me
The road free, clearer, braver, kinder and timely,
Truth undenied, fear deposed, honesty not in throe
Through this weary way of silence, you know.

Some-Velvet-Briars/ May 25, 2025/ 2:51 AM

Five vials of hope before 2:55,
An epinephrine Saturday feast
After midday, preventing time to arrive
Again, to stall the curse at least.

The single drop of tear tells it all,
I guess I've seen it coming.
And it did, but very stealthily, the fall
Disguised in serene eyes staring.

Broken voices of 2:55 and hence
A glass of water, a pat on the shoulder,
Paper works, the waiting, querying the sense
Reduced to an atheist's prayer.

The chaos ceased, all quiet on the front.
The war is lost; not a dream did survive.
Life is a poem that is so blunt,
All gone, after midday at 2:55.

Here I am, at this certain dim side,
At the side of the door, not looking at it anymore
But I am waiting now for reality to decide
Time is fate, fate is time and nothing more.
I could hear them reminding, falling numbers,
I sigh, a quick glimpse, their determined eyes,
Doing all they could within their powers
And here I am by the door, knowing  life always lies.
Everything is temporary, all trying to survive,
By the door I saw them, relieved, for the life they were able to revive
Walking away from their routine, to the known--
The inevitable they would try to postpone.
And yet, in that moment of quiet triumph,
Their faces whispered something unspoken,
A fragile hope, a fleeting joy amid the storm—
Life, though borrowed, was no less precious or broken.