Within the silence is a crowd.
Looked-over - over-looked -
two sides of a single simple
razor-edged coin.
Some are always seeming seen,
balanced ON the edge.
Yet for most its a side -
some forever to be aside,
or as mirrors of another
or just mirrors for another,
and some
just 'mirror' others...
standing, sitting,
thinking, speaking,
fearing, un-living...


Leaves quietly murmur
in all the forests
crowded round -
an endless rushing rustle.
The sea echoes the soft susurration
of all the individual droplets
in waves touching shore.
But they and the leaves
as an each
remain unheard -

Each begins and finally
the single journey
floating, twisting, turning -
round and around
til finding the ground
come our Fall's day -

Against all the reds,
browns, and yellows
flickering in and out...
their remains
centered -
focused in all the eyes,
We always hear them -
just seldom see THEM
or even ourselves.

Such tears are cried,
then leaked to flow
the cheeks and down
til mingling, joining -
merge as one vast roar
ever never heard -
of all the alone

Chris Twyford

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