Silence

The windows opened their arms out wide,
as the soft lulling winds sang, soothingly,
the squirrels, they ran, in undulating bounds,
and the rain, it poured, as if in testimonial harmony.

And the mind, it sat, waiting to be stirred alive,
and while without protest, thoughts danced away,
embroidering the imaginations of an escapist tide,
to no avail, for the silence had yet the will to prevail,
and uncertainty and uneasiness, marauded earnestly,
shrouded, by a veil of hope, fulsomely mislaid,
on the irresistible prospect of silencing the silence,
and in rhythmic progressions it climaxed, hurtfully.

I looked outside, as the pondering began to hurt,
the men, snatching up little good talks,
the tide of time, the girls playing by the riverside,
disharmonious was I, for even the rain fell not silently

Queer uncertainties of silence and of time,
uneventfully they pass by, mitigating expectations,
taming desires, strangling the hope, left yet if any,
dangling on optimism and lies, self-placatory ,
dousing hurtfully, the soul of my mind, ruing lost passions,
ruing the time, lost in time, like the ruing Sibyl
eternally awaiting the end, to no end, and knowing not,
which is which and why is why, this end of silence.

The sun then shone, out amidst the pouring rain, 

the burgeoning clouds, and their thunderous refrain, 

The sun is sweet, it is commanding, it bathes you in a light, 

that you yearn for, from the people around you. 

But there is pleasure in misery I felt, as it straggled my brain, 

a peep into the mire of my conscious existence, repudiating the pain, 

suddenly, as if advocated, justified by the absurdity, of it all, 

and insignificance of it all in the transitory lives of a fungae culture,

residing on some chemical scum spewed across the heavens. 

But no, I couldn't stray, for there was something special, 

about the silence that pervaded, something more than denial, 

something more than sadness, something that felt like hope.

And there is a certain solace I can feel, I realised, 

sitting on this bench, alone with time, 

in a moment in time, that the vagrant hippie, 

who has travelled much, knows not of.