The architecture of silence cycle of four poems

Poem I — The Architecture of Silence

My life was like a reverie,
A ghost that learned to disagree.
The deepest thoughts I made ineffable —
A kingdom broken, yet unlabelable.

I am Reticence in the midst of ages,
A footnote torn from forgotten pages,
A negative in seraphic stages —
Too bruised for hymns, too sharp for cages.

Poetry is veracious in its truth:
A mirror held to a decaying tooth.
It ameliorates ashes on the path —
Turns grief to grammar, aftermath to math.

If you are indolent, you cannot do your best;
The worm inherits only what is left.
Sedulous — the only rightful way:
The chisel loves the stone it must betray.

Equanimous is future’s land —
A field where broken watches stand,
And wounds have finally learned to rest,
No longer needing to confess.


Poem II — The Tongue of Thorns

Perhaps sometimes I am garrulous —
A clock that ticks when no one cares.
My thought, predictable and dolorous,
A loop of stairs, the same despair’s repairs.

Trepidation of life and death —
Two wolves inside a single breath.
My future is an old complaint:
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 inside my room was indelible:
We read only truth a memory terrible.
Not the kind that glows, but the kind that breaks,
The kind the sleeping earth retakes.

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

I have met petulance upon my way —
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 the past —
Old photographs that breathe too fast.
My reputation as a flibbertigibbet
Has cast me out — a jester’s crown of broken glass.

Stay sanguine in your guiding light —
The lighthouse knows the ship may slide.
Each stumble teaches you to fight,
As when one looks amorously, 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.
I learn the taste of what I did not like —
Sweet venom, strangely psych.

Strange, above my heart, a wing
That learned to play the part of scar.
And pain in model sight — a perfect thing:
Perfection’s wound, too clean, too bright.

Enigmatic secret of our life
Will never be for answer in the 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, yet love the prism.

My voice is not enrapturing the audience —
A bell that tolls for no applause.
And I abide in silent clairaudience —
Hearing the hunger underneath all laws.

When you are lionized as a hero,
When life is better than opinion —
The statue learns what zero means:
The crowd, the crown, the false dominion.

Your stories edify the stranger’s mind;
Raindrops imbrue the hot expanse of space —
Blood mixed with water, and the soul rewinds.

Many are latitudinarian in their beliefs,
But they see only the wall of griefs —
A wide horizon, yet a narrow door.
Thieves of the heart, who seemingly exist —
They steal, then ask what love was for.

Imperturbability — to live in the disease of the freest,
To float in chaos and call it peace.

No malaise makes the honest one confess
By force the truth, when it arrives, undresses.
A fever’s prayer, a naked guest —
And in that ruin, they find their rest.