Moon at Half Past Noon

Do not believe that silence is a void,
a simple lack of sound.
It is a language, actively employed,
on a hallowed, bloody ground.

It has its dialects, its subtle tones,
its sentences composed of bone.
There is the silence of the comfortable chair,
the warmth of milk, the locked and bolted door.

It is a vote, cast in the tranquil air,
for the preservation of a sleep it does not wish to cure.
A period. A full and final stop.
A closing of the eyes before the drop.

There is the silence of the tightened throat,
a swallowed scream, a prayer turned to stone.
It is a wordless, terrified, internal note
that prays the storm will pass, and leave it alone.

An ellipsis… trailing into dread…
The living speech of one already dead.
There is the silence of the shrewd and wise,
that weighs the cost of making any noise.

It is a currency, a calculated compromise,
that trades a principle for safety, and calls it poise.
A semicolon; pausing to betray;
The debt of honor that it will not pay.

And then, the silence after it is done,
the quiet of the street once the bomb’s fled.
It is not peace, but justice left unsung,
a heavy, hollow ringing in the head.

An epitaph carved in the air, so deep—
A secret that the very stones will keep.
So when you choose to hold your breath and stand
inside a silence you have called your own,
know that you hold a weapon in your hand.

You are building the last, cold, and final stone.
For the wall that tyranny will ever prize
is not the one of brick, but of the averted eyes.
The most resilient structure, standing firm and true,
is built of my quiet, and is built of yours, too.