a wall of tears
though it does nothing to quell the flame,
they hide behind
a wall of fears
that echoes the sound of your name.
its inlets and tributaries
that venture to you
and from you
are stained red from the wine you spilled
though it had no color.
These hands, these arms
as they hold and surround you
though they mean to provide you peaceful solace
they only seem to confound you.
This silence –
this silence though it may be golden
it is not always consent;
mere empty promises that keep me beholden
to words, like a coil that is wound
betraying a silence that does indeed
have a sound.