Thursday, April 16, 2009

Echoes of silence

The melancholy night

Sings a tuneless lullaby,

in cacophony almost.

The madman crosses to the other side,

And whispers grave forebodings

To the dreams of tomorrow.

The man with swaying steps

Lingers for a while, in memory of an unfaithful mistress.

And in the cold, dark crescendo,

She stands forlorn,

Her bright lipstick pouring over

Like red wine from a spout,

While she waits for her man

In tainted solitude.

In the draught of her being that she has poured for him,

Shall she seek the jingle of coins at dawn.

For the life that is this death,

In the echoes of this silence,

Mankind shall rise

Like a phoenix.

With the morning Sun,

As we bow our heads in solemn prayer,

There shall be truth,

And we shall be whole again.


Your melancholy,
My sighs,
Your dreams,
My lies,
Your questions,
My quiet,
Your cosmos,
My riot,
Your life,
My breath,
Your love,
My death,
Your madness,
My method,
Your preoccupations,
My lifeblood,
Your infinite,
My Now,
Your smoke,
My thou,
Your vagaries,
My pretense,
Your faith,
My penance.