Seeking Silence

Sun beats like a drum; swallowing the work of sandpaper. Birds scatter like shadows at the crinkle of parchment paper. It seems there is a visitor.

Shivering like the string tied to a balloon lost to the air; it is too hot for eating fresh baked pie whose essence invades the air even before completion. Steps leave no mark of having been made, an existence even more meaningless than the puff of air which dissipates, having only caught in the air long enough to be missed. Single steps are easier traveled.

Phantom light, and phantom dark, dance like the flames of a fire in the hearts of faces, reflecting like a drop of water on the smooth surface of a deep lake. Laughter seems a mask, a waterfall obscuring the unyielding cliff. Pages a silent relief from noise weary travelers.

The tapping of a pen silent condemnation, condescension, cool confirmation of the utter uselessness of communication –never understanding, never listening, never looking past the glass door so fragile it shudders at the breath which falls upon it. Time aging as the warm blanket of darkness lessens the notice of cold blooded killers, silent in its eternal being, calm in its unfazed existence. No movement to be made against the unshakeable wall, no attempts or even wishes of such.

Shortened days mark the release from metal bars, as if the cake half-eaten must be savored for fear of loss, the eaten forgotten as though never there; bars withdrawn in mockery of the chains which bind further –they had served well as the markings of a butterfly, eyes where they are not, warnings in the form of color a rainbow of lies. Wandering to decrease the time spent in misty nothingness a welcome pastime if kept hidden.

Leaves cry like a newborn child want for attention; stream the soothing murmur of a mother worn from caring. Like a newborn fawn unsure, like the last bud not bloomed for fear of being, hair a mess of forgotten beings too small to notice if one cared not. It seems the visitor is shy.

The slow slither of a snake advancing as the waves on a shallow beach, the calm envelopment of the steam which dances on the surface of water too hot to handle, the meeting of ammonia in cabbage juice takes time to adjust as features fuse on generations past and future. Warmth is always in existence, as silence is never complete; hidden from the eyes of a train on its track, known only to some, as a demon chooses those who shall see –the rest contained in the shell of a clam being polished as a riverbed eroded. The only gift to be offered to the visitor –the only gift which can be offered to the visitor –gladly given.

Darkness for once a welcome friend. Viciousness of falling leaves smothering, piling, rotting, guarded against by the dancing of wind running through time, the friend of all and hostile to none. As consciousness slips as a drop of dew from a rose, the sense of protection grows as it always seems to when one finds a place of belonging.

Sweet dreams, child of the forest.