Curse of Quiet
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If you can not speak, hear ...
I am no better than you -
We are turning inward en masse
Light gleams from the mountaintops and steeples
Warning us with dread, yet our swirling head is never fully fed
The beast, reticent as death, wastes breath on blame
It screams without a voice to shatter the mirror of truth
Begs with keen intent to move our lips
To reach and grow and sing
The song matters not ...
It is the lilt music of elucidation that begs to tremble the air
And the sacred echos not our own ...
Lies and cries ... moans-to-sighs
The pregnant replies that move in the womb of hope
Cloaked in doom they grope for sound, sacred
But are born wan and still and cold ...
If but a heaven's thunder to rattle the starry veil
To coax the sun to wail its bright, athwart the darkening hem
To tear the dreams from our hearts, and cast them upon our fellows
To feel the weighty wonder of dire discourse and deliberation
To burn our iterations in the frozen flames of compromise
But first, to daub tender our lips with utterance
For if the air hangs deaf and dewy like the crimson morn
We will surely earn our sorry fate and folly
And cold curse ...
Of silence ...
If you hear, speak.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Sound Of Silence" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2019
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