If a being could send us a singular word

In the form of a request for silence

I imagine it would come in the version of rain

As a long and gentle white hush

Without one trace of rhythm or rhyme

There’s no word to be heard as rain turns to rinse

And in this still moment, in the blink of an eye

Chapters of me bleakly make sense

For true quiet comes in the form of an island.

No relation to the receptive, naked ear

Like the nightly rain, the waves rush and fold

My fertile relation to the duty of my soul

As the thick, grey smoke rolls off this fashioned perfecto

It ever-so-slightly remains slow.

It modestly turns to a heart-quenching mist

That’s clenching desire and averting the fist.

Although time is created by an expert composer

Tomorrow’s awareness turns me lush

As I watch the thick smoke glide through the rain

This moment is in debt to the gentle, white hush.