With sunken eyes in tired sockets,

a girl ran after her fatherโ€™s sigh;

seized it, slit its throat, hid the

blood-stained knife in a lawn of solitude

& became the dream her father had

on the night of her conception.

She remembers her mother’s words,

“On the night of your birth,

your father was like this tipsy darkness-

wearing a shirt sewn from a fabric of scars,

he staggered in the furrows of dimming stars

till he stood before a mirror & saw you

walk out of his reflection.

So when you run, my daughter, from the

ghosts of dead flowers & the songs that

die in the throat of a town-crier’s gong,

hold the hands of your Shadow

โ€˜cos on the day when your sun slumps and dies

& the moon turns his back at you,

Your shadow will perch on your soul

& hum into your ears, tunes trapped in

the sealed lips of the wind.

Do you still ask how I made my wings?

I learn to turn down the volume of my lover’s song,

The buzzing craze of the busy world

just to listen to the voice of Silence,

and watch solitude spin me wings

from the plume of ideas.

This poem was written in 2017 from a deep personal reflection about how silence quickly becomes the massage oil ideas use to settle in, into the skin of our minds. I feel it’s a good time to share it with the you, with the world.

Photo Credit: pexel.com

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