The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Thursday, October 9, 2008


Where am I?
Why the darkness?
Who is there?
In my unbroken tear
Silence is near
The undeclared
Of my dying fear
Hush hurry
Do not even breathe
They will hear
My terror frozen to core
Staring at the squeaky door
Hearing the unspoken creak
While my silence is bleak
Eyes wide opened to see
Wishing I could be me
Though nothing
I am aware, always obedient
Yet silence so resident
Observing the unspoken sounds
In the shapes of clouds
Existence anything but boring
Floating above high, soaring
Through birds and stars
Vanishing are my scars
Unspoken is the fear
I cannot see yet feel near
Reaching for my hand
As I solemnly apprehend
Suddenly bright overt flashes
Brilliance in an instance
No longer silent fear
But defiant persistence
The unspoken unveiled
At last clear is the fear I felt
Not at all ever mine
Although conversely human line
Perpetual is the unspoken silence
Uninterrupted and absolute
Where still calmness is in the sphere
And no one ever feels the fear
Where am I now?
Why the light?
Who is in the flight?

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