I despair of my silences.
Twilight mourning death of the sun.
Termite of my memories
bites me hollow from within
I stare at the sun
through the glass of my skin
ponder the course I’ve run
and the person I’ve been
Shouldn’t I have been more brittle
to break down into words, sentences
like silly little mechanical toys
twisted, deformed by discontented boys?
My eyes would weep for shame,
but they fail.
Silent hordes roll over these ways
relentless unrelenting waves
of mechanical self-pity;
this is where all ends meet
this is where the past repeats
this is where humanity converges
this is where our sanity verges
on the borders of unsanitised dream:
My cheek swells like an unforgiven page.
All that could not be spoken
all the still unbroken
pieces of a shattered glass
cannot conjure a revealing phrase
A poet is silenced by his words.
We are made wounded
by all that we could not say.
Even as we speak we fail
to say it
We fail to articulate our condition
and are as if we never existed.
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