Silence is never nothingness.
It never was.
It’s full of confusing emotions,
Which remain unexpressed.
It’s full of unspoken words,
which make our throat bleed
Just like the sharp broken pieces
Of mirror.
It’s full of unresolved mysteries,
Tangled like numerous threads.
It’s full of an awkward madness,
Beyond all the limitations,
Weather known or unknown.
Being comfortable with silence
Is a rare art.
Those who experience
This uncomfortable comfort,
Fall in love with silence,
Where they experience
The unexpressed emotions,
Where they come across
The unspoken words,
Where they find
The old new scars
And the broken pieces of the soul,
Where they untangle
The threads of the past
And use them
To weave the future,
Where they gain
The miraculous power of madness.
Autumn 