One day had a poem knitted in scary silence,
until noon broke the hush of this blurry silence.
Scattering the fragments of whispers in day,
in raging questions they are on a stormy silence.
Twice I called the moon to their thoughts,
but all in a word was liquid of teary’ silence.
The dead life snorting Earth in their nostrils,
breathed the sun in rays of fury silence.
The potter asked one Rudolph for a couplet,
to echo in the poem of a wary silence.
Tablets are concrete. Slabs are stones
Writing in syllables is broken glass on wobbly stones
Rare assemblage of letters, pressed against the chest of pages
Bricks that stunt a writer’s block are not probably stones
Titles irk, gall and pique
Stanzas could stumble on possibly stones
Conclusions are endings, a denouement is a coda
Painless texts were inhumed in Ptolemy stones
The shoulders of stanzas barely bear the truth
So the charm of a verse is free of volubly stones