Silence is a wall I construct…a second, third, fourth fortress…a self-preservation that mausoleums existence, a heavy door that warns the fate of trespass… …Silence is a noose I fray in repetitive motion…thread after thread I unfetter the bind…left as a trail of recognition, in the wake of losing my way within my head… …Silence is an undead language incapable of translation, yet I communicate it in the unconscious hours…I mete, I defeat, I am not spared…a voiceless canvas, my mouth fleshed-over, all I want to say is inescapable… …I write streams of ink in bleu and noir, I unleash the beast bewitched by the moons of my hands…and like the new phase, eclipse and devoid, the words I’d written vanish, leaving a stark contrast to the tomb exhumed… …a second sight gives new life…the secrets I write…they are shining trinkets that speak to the crows…somewhere, in a corner of another city in an untouched land, a crow caws, clicks, and purrs my truths to passerby’s who hear clashing tones of melancholy and hunger…an indecipherable juxtaposition, a flesh-made conundrum…my secrets breathe… …the abandonment, it doesn’t hurt me…the loss of hope’s ambition, doesn’t scar me…the initial lie…that reach, invited of its own accord, that’s what killed me… …and ever since, the crows have been burying me, screaming me to open graves, making a pauper of me…unclaimed…the earth absorbs the unsightly decomposition and fuels the unease of my heart, stirring my hands to toil at the invisible, the incomprehensible rite of lone…