Immured inside my silence I compose
my silent compositions, sigh and trace
each empty supposition I suppose
would find a voice in any other place.
As gray as shadows sliding from the breath
of aspirations slipping to the floor,
my words exhale, anticipating death,
within a tomb of walls without a door.
Without the tomb my suppositions fly
on winds that cut the blue between the clouds,
in dreams and visions painted on the sky
above the upturned faces of the crowds
of people who decry the silent word
that none have ever spoken, ever heard.