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Poem

Those who do not know the trials of love, 
do not ask the state of my heart

I've been left standing in the rain,
feeling like meaningless words,
searching for silent serenity,
away from turbulent thunder.

Safe in a sanctuary of solitude,
where the laments of lightning,
no longer harm my soft sanity.

Will speech be my foe, forever?

On the edge of silence,
losing all desire to speak, 
write or breath with time.
I read the promises of poets,
yet felt no intense impulsivity
in their ink, which made me think.

Is poetry a fictitious fellowship?

Words can be like crushed promises,
like fragile leaves of vulnerability,
waiting under twilight trees for death.
Sometimes loneliness is barbaric,
but when there's wilderness, there's magic.

As I stumbled upon her misguided quill,
the crimson shade of my soul,
felt warmer than cinnamon tea.

Her poetic wings had succumbed to slumber,
within a fragile cocoon crumbling with cracks.

First glimpse of her eremitic eyes,
I saw billions of solitary stars,
illuminating like golden tears,
so I kissed them without touching -
healing her, soothed my tired tongue.

She was the butterfly,
and I, her rose of desire.

In the absence of iced emotions,
like a thief in the night,
she stole my once forsaken heart.
Forgotten lost words returned,
as I lost control of flowing verses.

She had never read my poetry,
but was the one hidden behind verses.
Her voice sang a secret symphony,
who's melody makes my muse dance.

Was I even a wordsmith,
before you diversified my pen.

I know you are like the wind,

regardless how hard you blow -

I will forever calm each zephyr. 


Silent One
16 October 2021

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