Silence is Greater Than Gold

My father once told me

to love the sound of Silence;

to let it drape over my eyes

like velvet cloth

and run down

my arms,

which gesture at the crowd

that waits in rapture

for my next utterance–

golden liquid

from my silver tongue.

But he forgot to tell me

what I should do

if Silence does not stop;

what should I do when,

after I turn the faucet off,

glowing words forget themselves

at the door

between my lips and the quiet air

and return home

to their comfort

in my mind?

What should I do

when I stammer out

turquoise copper bile

because rotten,

rusted metal

is all that remains

in my reservoir of gold?

What should I do

When Silence runs bitter

like the curve of a golden fruit

twisting brown,

past its prime,

and its smell becomes sharp,

cutting off my silver-plated tongue?

When Silence,

my greatest weapon

kept on a leash,

does not turn

to slice through the crowd

and instead

rears its cruel head at me.