Your body becomes the noise of a thousand silences dead inside you.
Now you don’t know which one to keep within
an insomniac’s dawn
or an early man’s dusk,
so you choose to create your own time,
calling it a wanderer‘s dimension
nobody will ever know about.
You think rivers are significant of the loud
so you name yourself after an ocean,
your muteness still does not speak of your raging waves,
and you let it pass.
Behind closed doors,
you break inch by inch.
your skin comes off.
the blood in your veins fumes.
your bones clatter.
you are just an empty cauldron
with all the silences and noises
trapped in one place.