Reward
Silence becomes it's own reward,
Nowadays,
For what use speech in retrospect
When she can no longer verbally reply?
In the memories I sift and hoard,
Pathways
In much of any respect,
To another eye within my mind's eye.
Still, she seeks to dwell, in
Wombs
Of birthing thought and thunder
Always a bright green fuse,
With wisdom and tales yet to tell,
Rooms
Stacked with bibles of infinite wonder,
The living spirit of my muse.
Still as incisive and razor honed,
Blades
Through waters of mental streams,
Somnambulant voiceless words returning;
Almost as if the soul she owned
Invades
At open invite my fondest dreams,
Our silent passions still burning.
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