Most silence feels what wasn't sound;
by David Zvekic
each shrill and screeching cry a choice
where dusted distance spreads around,
but without voice.
You could but leave me most unkind;
alone I have been here that way;
to drift between two dreams and find
that neither stay.
But what? A week, a month at most:
the ticking clock froze long before,
to braid at our abhorrent host,
to slam the door.
Each breath inhaled, we shed a tear
for It, and though we've made Life worse,
We never wanted It, I fear:
This sacred curse.
That living wrecked, it grew up strong,
a shameless broken mouth distended,
overfull with countless wrong;
it bade life ended.
For in the still we'll never be,
nor being here, should live as well;
The pleading, that you've needed me,
conveys to hell.
What Love would make me bear I would,
if only free to wear my pain;
It is not hope I've understood,
but constant flame.
If love meant less than life to me
I would give all and much much further;
Bound and fixed to destiny:
To seek another.
So burning bent my will has set;
no choice I've made, since I begun
so long ago that Hopes forget:
I've had but One.