Silence and Sound

This poem is a perfect example of how my mind runs in cycles. Not only is the rythmic structure very similar to my last post, but I even borrowed some of the images and rhymes, and without realizing it at the time. Yet somehow, the subject matter still manages to be wildly different. Essence over accident, I guess. Also, if you hadn't noticed, I've been playing around with repetition of words lately, primarily thanks to T.S. Eliot, the master of unrepetetive repetition. I hope my early attempts aren't too obtuse. I prefer the surgeon's knife over the blunt ax, but it's hard to be objective about one's own writing.


Silence and Sound

You spoke, and speaking bared the blade
that turned the flesh away from bone
and stole a heart, so sorely paid
in purchase of a pleasant tone
to rub this aching ear aright,
then burden with a baseless fright,
like moss that creeps upon the stone,

spun of the threads that chance to be
and dissipate upon the air,
that spread uncertain certainty
within the fabric, woven fair
by hand, and tongue, and time unchained;
a painful pleasure for the pained,
who fails to ever find the tear.

Yet how could I subdue the sound
that sends the agony, acute,
upon the mind in pulse and pound
that measured days cannot dilute.
For me, the only greater fear
than suffering the words I hear
is that, one day, you will be mute.