You are held entranced by
The pale milk river of her arm against yours
And the new-leaf softness of her hand as it curls around your own,
And her voice, it sounds like the church bells
Whose ringing prophesizes the setting of the sun.
It is quiet until she speaks,
But it is silence that falls
When she asks,
“Stand with me,”
And all you can do is fall,
Recklessly, ruthlessly, ruinously
I come from the forest
Where dreams go to die,
And the smell of loam,
Deep and dark,
Disguises our every secret;
Where the silence,
Impenetrable as the fortress along the shore
Where impossible wishes spawn,
Swallows every sound.
(Eschatology: Noun. The theological study of the fate of the world.)
I am the rain that falls,
I am the wind
That wearies the wanderer.
I am the silence
That befalls all sound.
Is anything and everything,
Save for silent.
It is the silence that falls,
In the wake of your greatest defeat.
It is also the silence
That comes afterwards,
In every quiet moment thereafter.
It is especially
The hush that falls over the world
After they are done applauding
Your first and final act of greatness.
And Poetry Herself?
She is a shy and subtle muse, yes,
Beautiful enough to outshine Venus
And you can find her in the stars,
The myriad hopes and dreams of humankind,
And the spilt-milk galaxy of longing
That resides within our collective souls.
But she is never silent.
She burns, burns, burns,
Brighter than any star,
And so long as there has been life
In this lonely, sprawling universe,
She has been singing her anthem
Across the ages.
I hear her;