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Poem

In the labyrinth of my thoughts, an endless waltz of shadows,
I step on the edges of my soul, where angels shed feathers of memories,
their wings, birds of light, beating a rhythm locked in the vault of my chest,
struggling to fly, yet never freeing themselves from the cage of bones.
Thoughts writhe, eyeless serpents, cold as forgotten dreams,
coiling at the root of my mind, whispering riddles in dead tongues,
which only my nightmares can decipher, a dialect of the deep night,
words that slip like sand through the hourglass of time, lost in silence.
Every word I might speak is a thorny crucifix on my tongue,
neither holy nor sharp enough to cry out through the dense silence surrounding me,
just present, a relic of silence, inert and impossible to transform into sound,
a burden weighing down the soul, a mute song on the strings of an old harp.
I dream of speaking in rivers of fire, in torrents that could melt the silence,
to burst into a dance of flames, to burn away the fog enveloping my thoughts,
but instead, I drown in the depths of a cup of still, transparent water,
a mirror reflecting infinity, deeper than I have ever been.
I am not mute. I am a vessel filled to the brim, an ocean of glass and sparks,
and everything inside is a symphony of shards and gunpowder,
an explosion waiting to be unleashed, to release the burden of silence,
yet I remain a sealed reliquary, a universe keeping its secrets locked away.

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