A struggle lost within the silence.
All these worn walls.
My breathing short and small.
Gated rooms await the fall.
seems impractical and obscene.
the aura that surrounds me,
Gifts given from characters in dark dreams.
as they once seemed.
There are some who say,
‘To hold silence is to have hands of gold.
To hold it just a prophecy,’
they have not listened for what stillness is not.
I have heard the quiet when it is not wanted.
In quickness of the fallen snow.
Under limbs where shine is not bestowed.
In the calm of madness…
When no one is home.