Twenty-Four Hour Per Second Silence (These Conversations Always Are) -4/04/05

The silence crashes in, my piece is said.
We sit and stare at Spring’s bright flow’ry mat
That knows no names or faces, none of that,
They pollinate without an ounce of dread.

Well now I guess I’ve spewed what’s in my head.
My cards are on the table, plain to see,
These tiny little slivers of a tree
That live out others’ gambles now they’re dead.

The risk, however, here is solely mine
And terror fills my heart up to the brim.
Now branches turned to stone begin to writhe
As sap begins to flow instead of brine
And I have never felt so on a limb,
But neither have I felt so damn alive.