I wish to break through, to heal my soul with the whiteness of words
I wish to break through, to heal my soul with the whiteness of words,
But they hide in my shadow like shy animals.
My story is a forest where the echo of footsteps has been lost,
And my pain is the thin river that springs from the underground.
I could tell you how each moment has engraved storm carvings in the stones,
How the same wind that brings leaves in flight has stripped my trees bare,
I could weave before you the tapestry of bitterness, of helplessness,
To see your gaze skimming over the water of my story, not reaching the bottom.
I want to open Pandora's box of my heart and show you how each feeling is a myth,
How my gods and monsters fight in a bedding that does not sleep, a struggle smothered under a smile.
The unwritten story bleeds onto invisible pages, but the heart beats in a language foreign to the world.
It's an ocean, and each of my waves breaks the solitude of rocks into unheard whispers,
But you do not hear the symphony of the waves, you do not read the poetry of the rocks,
My horizons are aurora borealis on a sky too foreign for your eyes.
Here I stand, with a treasure of emotions drowning in my heart,
Sunk beneath the silent sands of my inner desert,
In search of a soul explorer, someone willing to unearth the relics of feelings.
My words get stuck, a melody in the throat that cannot find its way out,
It hurts in a murmured crescendo, a concert for which all are afraid to buy tickets.
And I sit - a library burning silently, its shelves unstudied, its flames unquenched.
I remain, with my story heavy as lead, waiting for the brush,
To draw upon the canvas of silence a fresco of understanding,
I am the source of a hidden river waiting not to dry up for the mouth of the sea,
I am a poem born in the twilight of a world that refuses to hear the magic of wise words.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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