There's without me something that's within:
ivory walls unwhitewashed by the din,
drawing from a silence far away
noise it had prepared to verse today.

Chords the lonely snap and tear in two,
sentenced to the crazy, to frenetic, to decay;
chords that snap in silence are from you.
Gifts of stillness are the gifts of few.



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This text © 2002 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.