The Silence of things unspoken,
Is that we’re all a little broken,
It’s the things he didn’t say that cut through the silence,
Quiet was his art, quiet was his science,
Loud were the things unsaid,
Even in the distance, immense.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes,
To chew at societies heart,
To gather their thoughts like Autumns rake.
Sometimes, words cannot make,
What love you have to give,
Fragments of your soul to flake.
2 thoughts on “Introversion – eighteen”
Especially the “Quiet was his art, Quite was his silence” bit.
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