The Vernacular of Poetry
The vernacular of silence cannot be heard by ears which are profoundly ringing by the overwhelming tunes of lofty desires. Silence has no shape and a beautiful shape at the same time. It can fit itself in the trickiest of places. It can strip itself of any facades and stand stark naked in front of you and still, you can not trace it. Sometimes it lives surreptitiously on the edges of the serrated palm leaves bathed by the shifty-eyed moon. The hushed whispers of the moon cleave a story out of the night's cleavage. The balmy wind carries the whispers under the thick layers of the drapes. We all have a story to tell but only a few can interpret the silence. Silence culled in the bones can birth a rattling symphony for generations to tell. Sillence culled in the twisted boughs of the wild oak. An unwanted witness to the miseries of mankind. A silent giant. Sometimes nature has its own lexicon of spoken and unheard. You just need the right pair of ears to listen to. Like the turbulent story of an ocean in roughly carved layers of the conch. I can still hear the waves if I press my ears too close to it. Nature is humming a sweet lullaby. Only a few can hear it. Silence and death are interchangeable the moment you part your lips.
Screaming from the Silence
The stillness in the air hangs silently and waits for its communion with nature. Like an orphan speck of dust bouncing on the strands of the sun. I feverishly look for an anchor. My life is blinded by the thick luminosity these sudden joys bring. Grief begets acceptance. Thoughts rattled like a puddle of water disturbed by the stone thrown and breaking its skin. Grief like ripples, traversing in haphazard directions. An outgrown fractal of grief. Growing incessantly and devouring everything like a blind tornado. Here everything is numb carrying the deep stench of loneliness in its folds. Here the nights carry the scars deeply carved in the serrated ends of the palms leaves anointed by the frothy moonlight. Here the shifty-eyed moon is my mute witness to everything beautiful and scarred. Here I am screaming the loudest in the cleave of this marred night but still waiting to be heard.