Burdens of Silence
Its a much heavier burden, that of a silence.
A weight of a hollow in the miscreant heart.
Not so much of ether, has shape and name.
How does this warmth turn so cold in here?
Mustn't be for the likes of trespasser flesh.
Not for the darkness, for it would be eaten.
Yet still lives here, this perfect extremophile.
It feeds of the light seeping in, leaves a void.
A laden juxtapose, a perfect balance but not.
Occupies in space, and time to consume all.
Lovely excruciating treachery, is so a spade.
Excising this demon is fruitless, so it seems.
Time again attempts to expose it to the light,
There's no reception, no certain reciprocation.
It stagnates as it refuses to be seen or heard
And to know its truth; to wither away, vanish.
Perhaps a key, but if so, unwittingly. Lament.
Upside down and inside out and for nothing.
You shouldn't be here, and nor should I ever.
To long for yesterday and tomorrow at once.
Knowing of one a farce and of another done.
It's the linger, the presence, its perseverance,
And its mocking calm that drifts from cracks.
It is a glass door, but still a door nonetheless.
Oh torture at the fruitlessness of this journey.
Only it becomes harder to sacrifice of my self.
How can they look her in the face and not be
Disgusted by the creature that stands before?
Selfish, fickle, the flustering madman that is,
Assumed as so deserving; not even scraps.
Toiling and tilting, the buoy barely afloat now.
All ends in sight; means extinguished before.
Must be content to let it fester and boil; both.
The pointlessness of stepping beyond a wall.
Feeling something may be more than nothing;
wake of waves to be neither seen, nor heard.
To say its better; I know not of such fantasies
As pressures build and would grind into dust.
To stay this course back to recessive corners,
To watch, to wish and to mourn this from afar.