There is an unhinged door
and a closet filled with spaces,
where sunlit noons make way for the evenings.
And a solecism of voice and colors
draw patterns on a river
where waits a boat of poetry
as I begin to sail along words and verses.
Sometimes I make no meanings at all
as night calls me
I just walk along the path of meaningless metaphors
and a quiet subdued home of a frayed yellow page.
Then something draws me to write
and an overwhelming figure of a poem taps on the door
with a hope to grow full
breathing the essence of your name and nothingness.
many titles that I could
call this poem of yours by
I call it silences.
making meanings sans words