I’m scared of silence.
I don’t savor the nothingness,
the emptiness of loudly, softly, being me
in the converting violence.
What if I go to the furnace
and there’s nothing inside
but ashes and bones
for my trial by fire?
What if I go the desert
and in the sands of stopped time,
in the barren taking-away,
You don’t reply?
What if I go to the well
only to find it’s long run dry?
What if I turn out to be filled
with dust-covered lies,
long-since able to be excised,
that pack my internal life
like pebbles tossed in a well at night,
like hopes thrown to the abyss
while faintly asking why,
but scared to have no reply?
What if I still closed my eyes,
went there,
in hopes of finding
the first glimmers of light?
different faces 