The silence of night stumbles
and your words are like ripples
in the ocean,
they are pasted to your lips,
but no one hears their echoes
disintegrating in the wind.
Flip through your random pages,
heavy as broken bones,
the crimson sky sifts the moonlight
and pulls cobwebs from
your redacted syllables
that break the penciled sky.
But no one reads the words
you wrote.
You subpoena the stars
to comfort you
but they run so far from the rumbles
of worlds colliding
and it seems as if your lonely words have been erased
by a recurring tide that never dies,
while your embrace of life
grows tighter
knowing that things like words
may instantly dissolve
or be forever etched like stone
into the ashes of poetry.
© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.
