There is a kind of silence that nourishes the soul,
allows pain and busyness and life to recede to the sharp margins,
room to breathe, room to be.
But there is a kind of silence that cuts like a knife,
walks through the mind with a clattering,
each step an unexpected resonant defeat,
a bully and a thief.
There is a kind of silence that breeds prayer upon prayer,
and the would-be blanks are filled in with communion—
to You, from You.
And there is life-substance in the weighted calm,
but not the weight that heavies the soul.
But there is a kind of silence that isolates,
birthing spits of anger
in and around the prickly edges of this wordless accusation.
And the unknowing
and the lack of resolution hardens by degree
what once was supple and red.
Where one silence meets the other is in these upturned hands,
this shattered, upturned…
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