Literature · Writing

The Silence


Certain things are not to be said,
only insinuated,
vaguely, like this,
with regards to your tender feelings.
Your confidence is a shaky thing,
A façade,
A placebo prescribed
for your schizophrenia.

A thousand wars
fought in words
the variations
that would embarrass legends,
centuries henceforth,
scorn on us faces,
’till we shall be buried,
or burnt;
’till the world shall die.

We bleed colours,
Red, of our blood,
The mark of Ares,
a war fought for the arms.
Blue, of old bruises,
So Old,
even the black has left.
Yellow, of pus,
the gold of snots and tears,
and it wasn’t the haze.
White, YES,
that’s the madness frothing
into our blissful death.


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