HAY LOOK A POEM
So, warming up for thebrenljidol I wrote a poem. Hehe!
Contemplating the song of silence,
The fragile constant of impossibility,
And were we to know what made it,
It’d be broken immediately.
For the bustle and hustle of new information,
The talk of discovery,
Would ruin any chance at peace,
Selling the formula to harmony.
Would it be made of silver or sickness,
Gold or solitude?
Three quarters crystal and one eighth love,
But it’s owned so quickly it’s crude.
And were we to keep this sacred recipe,
From greedy eyes and grabbing hands,
What about poor poor silence?
It is lonely, in a dune of quiet sands?
But then again,
After all,
There’s still a question to be answered.
What is silence,
This ideal we have decided to focus,
Our valuable thoughts upon?
Is it a grasping hope,
A faltering illusion,
For the poets and the proud?
Is it a dream to some,
Torture to others,
When they’d rather be so loud?
Should we find it,
Or leave it,
As a subject to be pondered?
Should we embrace it,
Or break it,
And tell of where we’ve wandered?
Is it a punishment,
Or a gift,
Perhaps a lesson to be learned?
Can it be taught at all,
Or is all we need,
The knowledge of words?
Do the deaf hear silence,
Or are thoughts,
Simply a voice of their own?
And is silence simply the absence of sound,
Or is it when we do not speak of that which must be spoken,
Do not tell of that which must be told?
Perhaps, in such a case, it is a sin,
To sing the song of silence.
Contemplating the song of silence,
The fragile constant of impossibility,
And were we to know what made it,
It’d be broken immediately.
For the bustle and hustle of new information,
The talk of discovery,
Would ruin any chance at peace,
Selling the formula to harmony.
Would it be made of silver or sickness,
Gold or solitude?
Three quarters crystal and one eighth love,
But it’s owned so quickly it’s crude.
And were we to keep this sacred recipe,
From greedy eyes and grabbing hands,
What about poor poor silence?
It is lonely, in a dune of quiet sands?
But then again,
After all,
There’s still a question to be answered.
What is silence,
This ideal we have decided to focus,
Our valuable thoughts upon?
Is it a grasping hope,
A faltering illusion,
For the poets and the proud?
Is it a dream to some,
Torture to others,
When they’d rather be so loud?
Should we find it,
Or leave it,
As a subject to be pondered?
Should we embrace it,
Or break it,
And tell of where we’ve wandered?
Is it a punishment,
Or a gift,
Perhaps a lesson to be learned?
Can it be taught at all,
Or is all we need,
The knowledge of words?
Do the deaf hear silence,
Or are thoughts,
Simply a voice of their own?
And is silence simply the absence of sound,
Or is it when we do not speak of that which must be spoken,
Do not tell of that which must be told?
Perhaps, in such a case, it is a sin,
To sing the song of silence.