If a being could send us a singular word
In the form of a request for silence
I imagine it would come in the version of rain
As a long and gentle white hush
Without one trace of rhythm or rhyme
There’s no word to be heard as rain turns to rinse
And in this still moment, in the blink of an eye
Chapters of me bleakly make sense
For true quiet comes in the form of an island.
No relation to the receptive, naked ear
Like the nightly rain, the waves rush and fold
My fertile relation to the duty of my soul
As the thick, grey smoke rolls off this fashioned perfecto
It ever-so-slightly remains slow.
It modestly turns to a heart-quenching mist
That’s clenching desire and averting the fist.
Although time is created by an expert composer
Tomorrow’s awareness turns me lush
As I watch the thick smoke glide through the rain
This moment is in debt to the gentle, white hush.