Trumpets Prohibited

Words spill like

Chocolate drops

Like unrefined, thoughtless

Utterances from my lips

When I have nothing to say

When correlation is as irrelevant

As the words playing on my tongue

Are to your sad sililoquy

My silence is not a metaphor

Is not a lack

Is not a warning

It is absorption.

I am a sponge.

Let me be your transport

Your getaway car

Your one-way train ticket

That the conductor might forget to punch

So you could ride that trail of steam

Through the valleys again

Because I want to take you to places

You thought you couldn't go

You were sure did not exist

In such bounty

And in such beauty.

My silence is a forest path

Hold my hand

Brush my hair from my face,

Tenderly, wordlessly as I do

And follow me



Because I need to show you a meadow

Of streaming golden sunlight

Where you too, will stand in awed silence

And then you might understand

That what is disconcerting

Is actually quietly thoughtful

And playful when you want it

And serious when you need it

And observant when it is you who blocks your own path

Like the unpredictable movements of

Brightly dappled sunlight.

Mute swans are all the more attractive.

Mute swans do not hiss.

Voicelessness is a frequent behavior

In my world of speed and madness

It is underappreciated

And misunderstood

Which moves me to such agitation

That I might just mispeak

If I were to echo

Anything but speechless silence.

The End

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