Stretched before you like the river of an unforgettable song,
your days might haunt you. In their entirety
they might overtake your life–what you spoke
as prayer and what you really meant–the fear
you pretended not to have even as the husk
of your inner thoughts composed this cacophony
in place of the honest melody that you were afraid
to strut and fret upon the stage. What were your intentions
in the beginning of yesterday? We all wanted the same thing,
and yet our worship has turned out so differently, the way
in which we shelter our own ideas, the way in which
we cut them off from their mothers, the way our orphans
flee from their articulations and hasten to the boon
of homophonic tones. Silence, then, is the hand that catches us.
Silence before the shape of our lives when all our days
dance before us in a numerical trance. Nothing separates
this silence before God.
-submitted by Kerri Snell
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