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towards Silence; Aftershocked by Evelyn Moriarty

towards Silence

I am listening for a silent sound

beyond this world, and our time,

and the limits of our selves;

before we needed words

to give shape to what

we think is real.

It is not a note in a language we already know -

Bb or A#

or the tonic C,

from which everything seems

to begin and return.

It existed first...It exists beyond.

At the centre of the Sphere,

a dark space oscillates...

Is that Silence?

...or some infinite harmonic,

which does not sound like sound

to us,

but a deep and distant thrum

calling us imperceptibly

in eternal return…


The heart-space aches.

Deep in a dark crater made

where Love – that fox! – once hunkered down,

scarred obsidian seisms now

the dry unpleasurable frequencies of grief.

No, mine is not some holy font,

spilling its healing

over the fractures and fissures of the self.

It is all ash and igneous impenetrability.

In a certain light, it glitters –

black ameythst blown wide,

a small cathedral of hurts and brilliant edges.

And, in the haze of a sometimes sunstream,

a butterfly may flutter down a shaft,

but sensing stone-cold permanence,

will not stay long

and beat its way back

to life.

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