Paint the Silence

Silence resides in the
Stoic mountains of my mind,
Watching over the still, dusty water.
It moves swiftly, but is never seen,
Wind that brushes the sides
Of the slopes with white paint.

When walking these mountains,
Nothing will touch my ears.
Except for
The sound,
The prickle,
Of snow riding silence,
Of snow riding wind,
Re-enacting a rainy day ...
The death of a million snowflakes.

When walking these mountains,
My words here are felt as bursts
Of white haze ...
Meaningless.
I travel the peaks,
And breathe its air,
Extinguishing the fire
Burning into my lungs,
Releasing smoke
Which moves away,
Sharing a waltz with the wind riders.

When I walk these mountains,
I speak to myself.
My words are drifted
Away by the wind.
They travel in circles,
Tire,
And die.
They mean nothing to me,
Nor to anyone else.
My words are corpses now.

When walking these mountains,
I wait for the tremendous high tide
To swallow these peaks in pure,
Even water.
I wait for it to drown the wind.
It won't yell for help.
I won't let the silence engulf me.
My voice is all I have.

Exposed to a shrill savage, I can't visionize how I will manage,
while an acute obelisk creates an incision, exceeds small damage
Scars bleak and pallid, colour stolen from the bark of my skin,
the dissonance of pessimism, thins the mark of my grin
Room spins and twurls within, my intellect broken of thought,
a soul that I bought, was soon to be haunted with distraught
Vision the absurd in speech, they paint the earth in Greek,
with symbols that represent leaders, and what they teach
They mistreat and seek for the weak, they suceed for the week,
and the enthralled that are in the fields, bleed into the leaves
And they speak for their families, the shattered trees blow through the breeze,
the pain and sorrow that seeps over my cheeks flows at a swift degree
Everyone of these slaves, works the sweat, though it is hard,
whip marks on your spinal cord from a simple remark, let me read you this card:

A Note from a former slave (Written by yours truly)

He paints the vivid memories of a misplaced yesterday
And the quantity of illustrated thoughts is a much better way
To find God, Jesus was on the cross solemnly dying
Beyond the fog, now Jesus is on the canvas drying
Surviving the empty existence this young man is plagued with
Selling his priceless ideas for the future for purpose is aimless
His fag stays lit, he uses it to end the hell where he resides
The demise he encountered a long time before it swells inside
Consuming that talent, his mother fed him the ambition
Father christened him a heavy burden of a family's malnutrition
Sage Marcus, hardly a label for a failure, 20 years
Past he started this cycle of insolence with many fears
But any deer sees the headlights of Apollo coming
And as it's peers get death frights, it doesn't follow running
Futile existence, spending time in an placent dream
Where expression of the soul is a marketable scheme
Weary of success, it seems to have escaped him
His question of sexuality is the sodomy that raped him
Moved out at 16, and disconnected relationships of all sort
While the clock's ticks seemed smiles that always fall short
Lives off every story sold in frame of embony or gold
A plastic encasing unrefundable memory still untold

The ashes of his pheonix mingle among the cigars
Far from the burning passion expanding his disregard
A few months past rent's due, he has to locate to another venue
Hoping his sanity is hanging securely on it's noose
The slums are just the reflection of a lost generation
Crackheads, gangbangers interacting in a weathered basement
Ever embracing the solitary contrary to his old friends
Cold winds of an autumn he spends without a soul's breath
Eats away at the sparse amounts of chicken the Salvation will give him
And his very prescence of individuality scares off children
Dropped the paint brush to illustrate a vision he can touch
Graffiti laminated walls beckon his name to fill in the cuts
Disgust, years of education only magnifies why it's so clear
That the system our society thrives on chides the gone
So here he walks, down a savaged path to hear the water's tide
As it crashes the receding line of sand, it hollers and cries
Replenishing the tear's in his eyes, he wants to plunge in
But the hidden sun sings his demise of demons in a dungeon
Of silence, and a mind that fails to relapse images he saw
When he was a child, before his brother was dead and it was his fault
Before his father used his hand to violently maul Sage's face
Burning his pupils to a memory that even he could never trace

If only he could see the stars plummeting because of his death
He sold his soul and eternity for 24 hours of vision in stead
Now, he lacks the dollars to recollect his pastels and chemistry
An entity of little meaning, scening his chest with an elegy
Painting a morbid philosophy of flesh or what it seems to be
He fills in the cuts with an ink of drying clay washed up from the river
And forgets the crux of all his lying, the day out of the closet lingers
Whispers lyrics the devil manifests with memories so intricately
Melodies serenade thru the penalty of the given imagery
His skin cut to ribbons, his enemy is his own subconscious
A monster scaring him out the closet is now the lady ceasing the nonsense
His mother has been looking for her first born for months on end
Attends the city's primates, a jungle of rusting wires about to disconnect
Listening to the voices in her head, finding the speaker of these words
Turns to park at the curb, walking past the park benches and birds
Disturbed, a quick gasp exhumes from her gaping mouth
The shaping clouds casts a gloom on her son not making a sound
Cries into the night, blood clots stop the puddle of life
Sighs are not heard through the dimness located in his eyes
That are open...goodnight.