my body’s silence is a dissonant rhapsody
etched in ancient keeper’s tombs.
Glazed over by waxes of older rituals
and writs of passage from long before
you or I were born.

I think that might tell a story
lunging forward inside all of us
like the bus with the driver
who worked his second job the night before
and without slept powered the bus
through a red light
where automobile on automobile now pile.

is there a greater purpose to this all?
in this void that fills our lives
between the events of each day. some meaning
to the silence that is life’s greatest illusion?