The potter’s hands; if only I could shape silence, somehow,
In moulds of imagination, coaxed into reality
Or perceptions collective, beyond the periphery of fantasy,
A vindication, a void, or a momentary revelry in ecstasy?
Words, do they masquerade as bridges
Between the islands - you and I;
Withhold what, from whom, in million words untold,
Your promises of nigh, or countless cindered sighs?
Words - are they then a mapping, a function,
A manifestation, collating expression and perception;
Sight, would you deem it then, the underlying
Extension, to paint the perfect vision?
Two ancient rafts, drifting in the tide of time,
Dying embers, of hope, victims of exactitude;
The see-saw life, its musical chairs,
And silence echoes in this valley of solitude.
