Voices

Silence is a tragic thing caught between the breaths
All the fluid sentences, words falling like summer snow.
And yet there is no peace for the living
So we're damned to hushed chambers
Where we cannot here our own voices, or our breaths.
Only the whispering of the passer by, death
And the blood white chrysanthemums on our stairway.

The lips move, the lips kiss, the voices never stilled
No earthly silence.
No city of quiet, rolling hills.
Our voices fall over a sunset that never ends.
Only continues to slip behind never ending mountains
Mountains built on shame and tongues that lick at vowels.

And here we sit, on grassy fields
Rambling and shooting aimlessly at a world that couldn't care.