no, it’s not that really—
just that sometimes
the silence folds me
like hardened clay
burned by an angry sun,
it cracks my brittle spine
quite carelessly beneath
its all too weighty emptiness
and in the ponderous
absence of gentle voice,
my own trembling withers
falling still, desiccated
scattered like the dust
across restless winds,
silence for utter silence—
a most pointless remedy
Çeşme, Turkey 26 July 2012
George Ellington 