Mute confessions

… I’m the silent line of the song of meaning …. I am the lethargy of empty rooms – in the corners of your consciousness, in the middle of the poppy field, at the end of common sense. I am the electrifying shocking touch, pulsating beat of ocean chill … the piercing cry of flocks of birds … I am the world and I am nothing. I am the non-sense of your phrase … I am the glass of wine that falls from trembling hands deep down into the abyss of shame amongst the crowd, breaking the clatter of deceitful evening…..

I am the breath of your audience stunned by your dead pale beauty, purified by mute confessions… by unutterable remorse. I am the lack of your religion and I’m the pray, frozen on those dry lips effusing true faith …