Ne plus ultra

Mornings as mute as Trappist monks

spill their heirlooms abroad

which we gather up in our inadequate arms ;

Silences riven deep within wounds

which no longer bleed ;

cadences and timbres of speech

uttered by tongues torn from their mouths ;

Indistinguishable now from the grunts of swine

those embellishments and hyperbole

of a language whose own practitioners

succumbed to artifice ;

And who is like unto the Void

and the Stillness thereof ?

Whose breath is it that alights

on the pristine inviolate surface

and for a moment deceives

the mirror itself ?

 

 

 

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