Silence does not pause.
It drops like a coffin lid,
sealing breath while eyes are still open.
It is not absence, it is a lock.
It bolts the door on truth,
lets rot finish its work
behind closed lips.
It fattens on withheld warnings,
feeds on every unsaid name,
turns air into a tribunal
where absence testifies as witness.
Even the grave keeps its silence
mouths packed with dirt,
stories buried with the bones,
names sinking into dust
with no tongue left to call them back.
Silence kills without lifting a hand.
It strangles warnings in the cradle,
sits politely while fires spread,
teaches courage to fold itself
into smaller and smaller corners.
And when it is finished,
silence does not rest.
It suffocates.
It writes its covenant in dust,
waits for the living to join the dead,
and calls that waiting peace.
These words belong to the Dark Psalter, a collection of laments written in shadow. Continue reading the full series here
In Luminance 