Real Silence

Funny thing is, about silence:

the less there is, the less it's worth.
It's kind of like a tide of joy

which at this ebbing leaves exposed
the jagged rocks of fear, perhaps
and because some small lack of it,

silence, brings no small pain to me,
while too much joy leaves the colors
and smells caked hard as if the globes
of my eyes are dry pastels, large

grained and too slow, instead of the
water colors which run through my
fingers and down my beard when now's
tide of joy ebbs again. This too
shall pass, I should tattoo within

my eyelids, but how will I still
remember when they are open?
Now that I have been struck, the rose
blooms beneath my skin and I taste
of love and blood and bitter and
wonder what will happen in my

moments next. Sometimes it rains. No,
no thank you, please, well. It's the case
that if I took one I'd find mine
contemplating the abyss and
waiting for an Abaddon to
describe for me the arachnid
cold spaces that branch from near now

to points unknown far beyond where
little pink pills will take me. On
the other hand I could just wait
for it to go away. The hard
ways are very hard, but not so
very hard as the easy way,
I've just learned. And anyway, each

ends with trials. Sometimes I see
love as a veil put between me
and another to easily
select the qualities of my
desire. Sometimes veils are too close
for me to see. Sometimes veils are

funny things, so trying. The whole
world changing, tides changing and eyes
as well, only skin is left on
which to cling, to dangle like the
basket from a balloon over

bare rocks of fear and time. I fear
sometimes, my eyes, that the world goes
on when I'm alone, my hair grow-
ing long, that if not written down

nothing ever happens. I've been
alone in this house for days, have
not spoken to anyone and

I wonder now where I am. Fears
want to become real, so I

do my best not to ask the same.