Woven by Silence

These are the songs I'd like sung, the words I'd like read. The poems to be heard and thoughts to be said. This bed seems so warm, away from the darkness. Laying here for a while, an eternal while. So still, so honest. So pour me a drink, a second to say, a bleeding heart bandage beginning to fray. The wound is now fatal, debating the past. Deceiving the current, the present, the last. Drunk on the poets who drink the divine. Swallowing fragments of distant design. And still I lay here, so still, so honest. Hard shell of a room, a dark and low nest. Woven by silence and laced with decay. The birthplace of now will hatch, then fly away. There's no understanding, no time machine fix. No solution, no ending, no candle, no wick. But might there be fire, a glisten, a flame. Burning with passion, then out with the same. Still will I lay, with honest refrain. A verse from a vow, a puddle from rain. A flood from a river, homeless in my home. My feet need no cover, they forever are cold. But still I lay down, eyes slower to squint. I'm striking goodbyes with a trustworthy flint. The songs that I sing, the words that I read. A poem to hear and thoughts to be seen.