The Architecture of Silence

Poem I: The Architecture of Silence

My life was like reverie.
A ghost that learned to disagree.
The deepest thoughts I made ineffable —
A kingdom broken, yet unlabelable.
I am reticence in middle of the ages,
A footnote torn from forgotten pages.
And negative in seraphic stages —
Too bruised for hymns, too sharp for cages.

Poetry is veracious of truth,
A mirror held to a decaying tooth.
That ameliorate ashes in path —
Turn grief to grammar, aftermath to math.
If you indolent u can not do the best;
The worm inherits only the nest.
Sedulous is the only right way —
The chisel loves the stone it must betray.

Equanimous is futures land,
When you are happy without stress —
A field where broken watches stand,
And wounds learn not to confess.

Poem II: The Tongue of Thorns

Maybe sometimes I am garrulous,
A clock that ticks when no one cares.
And my thought is very predictable —
A loop of stairs, the same despair’s repairs.

Trepidation of life and death —
Two wolves inside a single breath.
My future is always complain,
A rain that falls but brings no grain.
I want to be emulous in the rain —
To compete with storms, to wear their pain.

Our night in my room was indelible —
We read only truth of memories, memorable.
Not the kind that glows, but the kind that breaks,
The kind the sleeping earth retakes.

I am a different stranger of languages,
And loquacious with culture of centuries —
I borrow their dead, I lend them my ache,
A museum built on a frozen earthquake.

I have met petulant in my way,
A things that I cannot explain —
A child who bit the blooming day,
A god who stuttered in the rain.

Poem III: The Art of Remaining

Pernicious thoughts about past —
Old photographs that breathe too fast.
And my reputations as a flibbertigibbet made me out of cast —
A jester’s crown from broken glass.

Stay sanguine in your guide —
The lighthouse knows the ship may slide.
Trip always make you fight,
Like amorously looking in slight,
A glance that builds what hands could never hide.
And liberosis in your short life —
The calm of letting go the knife.

Now nodus tollens is my life —
The knot unties the need to strike.
Like a suck I didn’t like —
The taste of venom, sweet and psych.
Strange above my heart —
A wing that learned to play the part of scar.
And pain in model sight —
Perfection’s wound, too clean, too bright.

Enigmatic secret of our life
Will be always not for answer night —
It sleeps between the womb and knife,
Unnamed, unborn, but not polite.

Poem IV: The Jaded Crown (Finale)

I am so jaded about coming things —
The future folds its paper wings.
Apperceptive price of wisdom —
To see the cage, to love the prism.
My voice isn’t enraptured the audience —
A bell that tolls for no applause.
And I am always in silent of clairaudience —
Hearing the hunger behind all laws.

When you are lionized as a hero,
When life is better then opinion —
The statue learns what zero means:
The crowd, the crown, the false dominion.
And stories yours edify strangers minds —
And raindrops imbrued in hot space —
Blood mixed with water, the soul rewinds.

Many people is a latitudinarian in theirs beliefs,
But they only see the wall of the griefs —
A wide horizon, but a narrow door.
A thief’s of the heart and apparently exist —
The ones who steal, then ask what love was for.
Imperturbability — able to live in disease of freest —
To float in chaos and call it peace.

Malaise made people confest —
They vomit truth when there’s nothing left.
A fever’s prayer, a naked guest —
And in that ruin, they find their rest.