A Silence That Marches

A Silence That Marches

I am filled with lethal, unspoken words,

and still, I do not open my lips.

Words—

like dead fish

in dried-up streams—

sink into the mud,

never

to reach the tongue.

I am full of speech,

yet fused with silence—

a silence

neither chosen

nor imposed.

The tree of my words

will bear no fruit,

for the birds

that once heard its state

have long been dead.

The birds spoke,

and the tree would listen—

the tree never spoke,

and the birds

never heard.

The seed of speech withered,

and the tree

remained,

forever

in silence.

Words,

before they flow,

lose their color and soul

in fear

of not being heard—

and so,

they are never uttered.

I am filled with a silence

laced with a scream—

within me,

silent streams run;

they march,

and sing—

soundlessly.