Internal World

I have been gone
awhile. As if life
had lost its voice

or more seriously,
heard itself
for the first time

and fallen, shamefully
quiet. What has been
said before can only

be said again, even song
with some diversity, like water
is re-arrangement afterall.

It begins like this:
astonishment. The texture
of grass, the blazing color

profusely bleeding from rims
of sky, rolling seas whose thunder
is a heart split open, rushing

towards an isolated beach,
the nightgull piercing through
the sludge of darkness. Then,

as eyes and ears are filled
with violence, awe becomes
a hammer tapping on the skull;

its nail securely fixing
what was found to what is lost,
that which gave us joy

to this internal silence.