and have refused to write remain
Such words ask far too much of me
and might prove to prove me insane
Ask of me these words
in questions quite the same
And I may say "No comment"
or more precisely "I'd rather not say"
Though such questioning words
provoke me
to provide my tongue and all ears
their claim
For silence is the voice of death
that all life must keep at bay
These words trapped scream inside me
tortured, neglected, and in decay
for they (as all things) perish in silence
but their affliction within me stays
as echoes never to be disposed of
haunting and infecting the words I've left to say
but the written word...
It is the strangest of all things
For its silence echoes eternal
in a way death's silence can't contain
Still as ancient corpses
yet resounding unlike any old remains
Yes. The written word Is dead
but it's a living form of death
For when no more words unspoken,
inscribed, nor carved remain...
What life? What death? might there be
Dare I imagine to make some claim?
perhaps both then as now what's best
I'd rather not say
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