In the wake of silence

I wish my silence could be heard
A long brass instrument
resonating through the firmament
Though the hearts of my compatriots
It tells the tales of my eyes
– Unseen
I wish in its flow, was a warmth
then gladness may be its fruit
And the hand of my love can be kept warm
But it is not
My silence holds no pleasure.
No warmth bliss, respite, or understanding
It is empty and cold
It is still, and has nothing but the traces of memory
A nostalgia that is poisoned by loneliness
It brings in its arms, rot
Now all that lie in its wake are withered

Cursed be this silence
of mine

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