There was Beauty in Her Silence, So Beautiful was Her Voice. Each Kiss She gave, was Elegant. They made My Heart Rejoice. Now Her Memories are an anchor, Dragging down My Feet and Heart. My weight, is slowly sinking. But My Soul is not ready to Depart. As the Clouds begin to Gather. Thunder strikes the Ground. My Shadow is ready for the Night. But My Voice has lost it's Sound. I wish, I was.....true to Her and had, My wrongs Mended. My Dreams, will just be Dreams. As now Her life has Ended.
I hear fear is found in the unknown I want to be brought to the sand at the bottom of the full moons light falling underneath optimisms pull Even if I step in My footprint will end up being missing
The clock tower’s bell;
I’m stuck in a fragment of time With a fragile smile of a face of mind The sidewalk is painted But the mural is spilled ****** The violence is alarming There’s gunfire in the charming
The “I love you”;
The harm of forever Humming melodic sonics so effortlessly Angelic high tones of prefect balance The noise we hold onto till the last breath The Saturday mornings when breakfast is on the table and the family is sound home The sight of the lovely eyes screaming forever is found as our lifetime
silence can be...awkward. but it can also be a powerful tool. depending on your intention, it can represent respect. repentance. introspection. it can help you grieve. it can make it easier to breathe. and in a world that can bring the brutality of war into the safety of your home, when you feel lost for words, like there's nothing you can say, the sound of silence can say it all
i think i know that somewhat ulterior suggestion that you crept into my mind like a vivid rainbow across your face light transmissions offering up your words your image is on repeat and our sentiments are all quite something else always on hindsight on turmoil easily not speaking confused about what we want overexposed to death we each smell detached the way we sound in the distance often too frail to reach inside our beautiful loneliness
I used to hang out in abandoned buildings. Old machine shops with puddles of rainwater pooled up on the floor; sun or star light visible between broken and failing rafter beams and the holes in the ceiling and my eyes. Sometimes there would be particle board hammered into the brick where heavy glass windows once stood; tacked all about with bright yellow and pink postings warning people like me to stay out and to not trespass under penalty of law. The warning signs made me nervous because I don’t like to get in trouble. Sometimes I would notice abandoned spaces while driving up route 11 - Scranton, Pennsylvania. I would park and discern through google maps on how to gain access to yet another relic of American industry before Wall Street reinvented slavery and shipped the spirit of the Rust Belt to Mexico and Bangladesh and China and various sweatshops overseas.
I had a lot of spare time to walk up and down the Wyoming Valley, northeast PA, looking for the abandoned skeletons of buildings into which I could furtively enter and abide. Friday night, long week, punch the clock, no plans - no problem. It was me and my two feet, a long walkabout winding through the annals of my memories, maybe some take out for dinner and all is well. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends. I’ve been to many places and I’ve seen many things. I’ve faced many hardships but I always found a posse or a partner with whom I could abide in peace and cheerful community. That is before I would up and leave them abandoned in the wreckage of my slow motion odyssey of self destruction; dusting the bones of my many friendships with the many chem trails from the many jet planes from the many tickets booked by my father to save me from the many demons gnawing on my neck and heart. Goodbye florida. Good bye guam. Goodbye california.
Abandoned buildings are safe. There is a comforting predictability in their steady dilapidation. There are no standards of social etiquette by which to adhere. There is no small talk through which manufactured smiles show their teeth. There are no ****** expressions and body postures to monitor and reflect back what adjustments in countenance and demeanor I must make.
My face was a Greco-Roman mask. Stretched and dried out, suspended somewhere between a comedy and a tragedy. My face is the furthest frontier of my soul song, the outermost edge of my heart. That through which sound passes.