Standing in the hush
Of empty spaces, empty, empty,
The silence echoes, though he remains
Unheard.
He cannot hear himself but
for the tears;
For the flowing of tears
And the ebbing of the flow
For the waxing moon
and the waning moon--
too close a reflection, too close,
Surely he is not to wax and wan so soon?--
and for the clouds that obscure the stars
that muffle the silence
and swallow the earth
in unconscious eternal sleep--
Forfeiting the green of spring for nondescript,
is that so different from what I have done?
Am I not now dug in just as deep?
Am I to stop the course of--;
that enclose the city in a suffocating embrace,
dusting the ground with the icy offerings of winter.
Mute
remains the sound of the
silence--
the veil flapping soundlessly in silent wind--
silence;
And the tears that ache
to whisper across the
once vivid, now dull empty space,--
once I had Lily's eyes--
Clutching to the glass, trickling through,
Aching to paint their pale canvas with glimmering,
Cascading rivulets of hues of grey--,
Remain aloof, remain aloof, safe, aloof, alone--
And the silence is untouched,
and he is untouched.
Loneliness.