Unheard

There is music in the silence, in the rest of unheard notes. That is where I hold my breath. Where the universe spins out its code for me to read. I watch as the unfallen sky reveals her mystery. Language unfolds in choreography, dancing between each blink of intention. But I have questions If time is not real, then what are we? Poison and the cure, she screams at crashing volumes. No one sees. I lay in the soporific sequel, turning over in the concavity of restlessness. Trials of the past collide with warm static forming variations of need. They are all tied to strings. She strums them with shades of night. The unfallen sky weeps. No one is listening. Stress cannibalizes stones hungry for frailty but each is weighted in expectation. High caloric bites of the unknown. Bitter tones of perceived reality. The answer is in everything we devour. In the stillness of cognition yet all we do is eat. The mother feeds The mother weeps Begging for her witness As they all sleep soundly in her suffering