Sonnettics

She cuts my chest and slips her hands inside
to warm herself around my fading heart.
It hurts to feel her fingers gently slide
and push my heavy, heaving lungs apart.
She presses close against my dying skin
and softly lays her lips upon my cheek.
I feel her move, embracing me within;
without, I hear the silence as she speaks.
The words are not inspired, they are squeezed
through flesh that feels the murder of their sound.
Each line proceeds, an effluence diseased,
until the proper purgatory’s found.
We stay this way, forever intertwined;
Alone, she whispers to my broken mind.

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.