Is it just my mind that conjures
spectres, in the wake
of your sentences?
My fears that populate
pockets of silence
with the treacherous eddies
of suspicion?
What is left unsaid
teases tempests,
swirling thought to chaos;
And your silence is a sea
I cannot navigate, where tracing
constellations lead
to isolated continents.
0 comments:
Post a Comment