The Tapestry Is Unsilent

the rain would fall making silence beautiful.

life unsaid—miracles unspoken—the sheer elegance of mobility—as stars turning, made immoveable, so what have we said?  

a face of ambition, screeching across invisibility, so much remains unheard.  

a mandala in midair, mid-motion, exchanging truths for immortality.  made eloquent. made suspicious. or without one motivating care—to have lived, to touch light, to swarm with fury and grace.  

such a remote person, isolated inside, gregarious, free, like freedoms to a prisoner.  

mystic chimes, as eyes implode, such sweet organic cries.  the man was dead. a lady was his mistress. one kiss, made wholesome, so much greed for resurrection.  

too much compassion, a soul might crumble, in a world absent of kindness; to locate her, to ask for abandonment, ignored, forced to embrace love—frontal lobes turning, ghosts waiting, overwhelming chills, one smile, it pours down shivers—to have adored inclusion, to have become a kid—in likeness, chided for insensitive remarks, made to believe she is thrown, knowing it will come haunting again;

things we can’t say, dreams we can’t have, with souls so beautifully unnatural.  

wherewith, is gravel, ventriloquists, more silent rain; as turquoise islands, rubescent charms, so tender the way we never make love. days disrupted, eyes filled with hopes, while we never get exactly what we need—the xylophone, the sax, the opera—as rolling on fevers, prone to exaggerate, but just once, I need everything—without sacrifice, without compromise, with nothing but exhilaration.

the rain would pounce, plummet, probe, plague—into atmosphere, the skies leaking essence, the gods wailing in thunder, the rainbow making an appearance—as promise, pride, excellence and pain.