I try to carry silence
in the lining of my overcoat,
but it is everywhere, in hiding,
taking the shape of everything.
I fear I might become a myth,
grow a beard over these scars –
but some days my shadow sleeps in,
and this ache betrays my smile.
I recycle prayers like classic rock songs,
a safe playlist on a continuous loop,
wondering if God will station hop.
But he never does. He never does.
I know I am naked under this armor,
singing of love as fire sings to paper.
I want to let this silence out, but
I know the fate of delicate things.
My hands are shaking, legs unsteady
as I try to grapple with this truth.
I tell silence, It’s ok, my friend.
I know you’re there. Our time is coming.
Selected by Raymond Huffman
