Final Silence
by: E. A. Bartholomew

Silence is my widowed wife
With her I leave my love
In her I can free and fly
My secrets; like a dove
Her presence is a bitter fire
Her parting burns and chars
For her obscurity remains
As lucid, painless scars
Now tell me, is there a cure
To remedy her scorn?
My tears fall to a barren soil
Like a shoe too often worn
A fortnight and my soul is lost
Silence speaks for me
Set to seek, to find the weak:
The meek and stuck at sea
Serenity sings a shallow tune,
But this can't quell my fear
Her thoughts and bitter offense
Leave me wounded; death so near
And so I cling into her arms
And cease her fiery pain
Apologies for burning blood
Seem worthless in the rain
Silence speaks more hateful words
Than any man can bear
Her being seems more insolvent
Than consciousness can spare
Could I contrive what melts her soul,
Or should I leave depraved?
For silence, my widowed wife,
Can be no more than saved