Volumes of Echoes

i. Silence Itself Has a Sound

Pocketed palms deal
out of wickedness
wonderful psalms they’ll
say we shoplifted—
melodies we’d steal
for the fun of it;
little lies prettied
in our relentless
endeavour to quest
past our rage-limit.

Libraries stalked, full
of wealth repossessed,
composers help out
harpists with lyrics
unbinding a peal
from off tops of heads
resounding bells filled
with what talentless
heaven’s deaf angels
wish they’d come up with.

ii. Capture the Crux

All full! the awful
conductor trains us
to go; pitiful
public all used-up,
we all wonder who’ll
greet us ’the next stop?
Even though we talk,
our li(n)es parallel
wherever travel
silent afterthoughts.

Subconscious arms pull
up tracks a surplus
hymnal spills up on
our backs—burdens us
criminals uphold
as we back up what
theories we thought
could free us of hell
whenever devils
ask how we got caught.

iii. Diamond and Dagger

Diamonds die here—
daggers drown, withdrawn
from pools holy spears
into chest wounds saw,
clearing out those tears
we thawed out from what
cushion-cut fears gnawed;
burial ground dust
dries up amethyst
when what we said rusts.

Immortal faces
trace paths—mistaken
avenues races
to truth run fast—when
what you carve leaves its
tomb and traipses off
into sundown, lost;
erasing from time
each rhyme, striking lines
blown from paths we crossed.