The colour of words
taut like a spring
ready to erupt
a living sentence is formed
the syllables grinding a beat
the vowels mounting their sounds
colourless and
void as yet of meaning but
ready to erupt
seemingly lost
the words drift and tumble
wander through a landscape
of images
of feelings and emotions
their senses primed
in search of resonance
and whenever
they strike a chord
or touch a nerve
new phrases are formed
and colours start
to appear
like a kaleidoscope
the multitude of meanings
to tell the story
that was always there

She reads the sounds
He offers her
a heavy sheet of paper
as a gift
laden with the signs of sounds
she reads the signs
in silence
he watches her face
and he hears the sounds
loud and clear

A cacophony of stillness
he shuts his eyes and
listens to the sounds
that permeate his stillness
they come and go and
are not heard by anyone
some carry words and meanings
and he bans them
from his mind
some are just sounds
they just exist
fade in
fade out
and mingle
not one that draws attention
a true cacophony
of silence

Listen for the silence
a fleeting tune
like gentle summer surf
is lapping at the shores
of your awareness
from time to time
you hear a fragment
long enough to
recognise the music
you strain your ear
but slowly
the soothing euphoria
drains away
and now
there is nothing to hear
until that silence fades
into the background
will the music return

Words without a sound
this music exists
without a sound
no notes no staves no instruments
just music
without a sound
and in this music we can drown
it takes us and
it shapes us
and we pull on
like old clothes
a brand-new life
and no one knows we're there
no one hears the melody
no one sees us dance
we're just the music
without a sound

These are the lyrics
of an unborn song
engraved nearly
over and over again
in luminous layers
of ink
these are words
as yet
without a home
phrases without rhyme
thoughts that
may become
a dream
one day
these words
have gone astray
are blundering about
in a world
littered with concepts
are soaking up
the humming of the trees
the deafening whispers
of the grass
are overwhelmed
no longer
in control
but when they return
when they come back
to the safe haven
of reason and
of ordered meanings
they will be filled to the brim
with exciting new sounds
a new and unused language
and gradually
the fruits of their lonely journey
will rain down
to form a new life
and a new song
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