Poetry

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Per Elijah

I’ve listened to the song that silence sings
when midnight’s sickle stills the mortal tongue;
it lilts above my head, as if it’s hung
from trouble’s cliffs beneath where eagles wing.

The threads of gossamer by which it hangs
are delicate and fragile—yet they hold!
allowing dancing breezes to enfold
and draw the silken bow that mutes the pangs
of anxiousness’ moan; that rueful dirge
announcing my immediate demise,

and whose cacophony can’t improvise
a rift to squelch the slow and steady surge
I’ve listened to; the song that silence sings
from trouble’s cliffs beneath where eagles wing.

© D. Allen Jenkins

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