Hand my pen to the deaf
and let her hear the music
of silence trapped and
crashed inside
the auditory
language of my ink.
And when it bleeds, let it drench
the threshold of ears
where it chooses to stay.
Rabbit hole. I am now under
her spell — to the silence trickling,
blinded in paradise.
And the letters unsent
scented with coffee,
welcomed the symphony
of my silent notes;
rising and falling
like rhythms in quotes
of the brilliant ancestors
breathing in poetry.
Music can't perish
under her ears
for she breathes
the language that we
don't deserve to hear
So when she feels home
but not at peace,
alive but feeling
weak and sick,
hand my pen to the deaf
and let her ear
hear her music.
—MLD | 10142021
YOU ARE READING
Artifice
PoetryMy question marks were never caged but they always find ways to conceal their images and trick the pachydermatous spectator with artifice. Maybe, certainty can be Socrates listening to the mixtape in my closet? Maybe uncertainty can be me withou...
