It’s silent as though the storm is impending.
But I know where my voice could be heard.
Above the mountain top where the heavens were descending,
I reached a point where the valley looked absurd.
My past wasn’t dead but it lifted me here,
I merely stepped upon it, stone by stone.
For all that I did love and all that I did fear,
were implants which the world had shown.
I find myself today, craving for solitude,
while all along I wear a gregarious mask.
These voices within won’t let me conclude
a single and simple assigned task.
“Who does this belong to?” I ask myself.
“What can I do with it to change today?”
I search each book upon my little shelf.
But there’s nothing worthy they can say.
Silentinum! I wrote those very books.
I wrote them with my own blood as ink.
I defiled them, judging them by their looks,
and with every drop shed my ship did sink.
“Why sink? And why hide?” A little voice asked.
“Can’t you just go out, spread wings and fly?”
Upon the mountain top, in glory I basked,
giving out a tumultuously insane cry.
I shall tell you the truth today: I never grew up.
The little boy I’d lost, hid in the very dark he feared.
I searched for ages; with a coin filled cup.
While that hunger he silently endeared.
“Masochism! Is this all I now deserve?”
No! I refuse to suffer any longer.
So tell those birds to silently reserve
business class; my wings have grown stronger.