All this time,
you think this wall of me,
is the reflection I seek?
Swollen solitude,
until feet in one place assures you,
you have no place.
There’s nothing as caressing as silence,
when your life has been cavernous with noise,
bottled up rage is louder than any scream vocalised,
and that is why her silence is so appealing.
I despise the man that inflates his flesh,
gorges his appetite until he is inflamed with pus,
with the trickery of trophy women,
loud, lusting and yet longing,
and they both assume,
their flamboyance will carry them,
into the memory of pages,
nay,
into no ones poem.
W.E.
