Like the stitching of muscle

Desire burns strong to speak

To lay root in the empty plea of silence

 

Yet in speaking

In outstretching the bounds of a mute spirit

I speak nothing but my fear of silence

 

Despite my compulsion

I long for the blade tender and ripe

To sever softly my nervous reflection

 

I want nothing but return

To the lone naked nothing 

Where impulse was born but to gift itself

 

I want nothing but return

To the voice that lay no roots

Spreading everywhere its seeds of silence