The Quiet

We engineer realities sterile and clear behind closed eyes.
The day cast aside, night is near behind closed eyes.

Fleeting words, ideas not bound by definition.
The shape of unseen worlds appear behind closed eyes.

Forged hands balled in fists swinging in fruitless fits.
Regret building horrors to fear behind closed eyes.

Destinations escape through cracked sidewalks.
Roots stretch deep to interfere behind closed eyes.

Held breath is all that remains for us to fill our lives.
The gait of days stagger like years behind closed eyes.

Unreality, the should be, the could be, permeate.
Voices sharp enough to sear behind closed eyes.

Reflections dissolve, yielding to introspection.
Ourselves to ourselves leer behind closed eyes.

Truth grown monstrous enough to obscure reality.
Comfort stirs in silent tears behind closed eyes.

Life, the now of it, stands opposed to our dreams.
Defiant, we refuse to disappear behind closed eyes.

Impermanence endures, outlasting immortality,
I, Brendon, linger, always here behind closed eyes.

I, Father

When they were born, he was humbled quiet,
his heart taking seed in that fresh ground, quiet.

Much of the turmoil in his mind settled,
until even his feelings did sound quiet;

and when they were taken, to his own shame,
instead of protest they only found quiet.

The sapling he had been, grown in lush soil,
infertile now, withered with profound quiet.

Far too late, he begged for their love returned,
pleading tears until they were drowned, quiet.

This offense, his only true legacy,
Brendon’s mouth twisted up, bound. Quiet.