...Things With No Sound...
I woke up one evening and the light made the darkness scurry into my eyes.
Always the transcendence lapsed into the grit of the streets within my bosom.
I’ll never enter unscathed or without a storm; my body sodden with ash...
They stare at me.
The sudden jolt of something painful makes my limbs tremble.
Within my catacomb of awkwardness was the belligerence of peace trying to escape an inexplicable burn.
It made me remember the grave of my grandmother...
She was a witch that deciphered things with no sound.
Perhaps, she tossed the afterlife into my bed so I could walk steady, with a sonar of the melancholy.
And I kept myself from burying into an eternal sleep while treading.
The lively contradictions within life settled into my palms, and I crinkled part of the sun into lines; self sabotaging hot blooded constructive adversaries.
At several pricks of a needle from the taunt of my own inferno.
I became frazzled enough to find virtue in the gray of solidity.
How transparency was the gaze of wisdom.
Yet, my integrity lacked mistrust and at times I believed in shapeshifters.
How they told me they loved me, only because my love stayed the same.
I hated how I never waned with particular things within my oracular Universe.
My private world was never the simplicity of a smooth kill for those harboring facades.
Painted over with pretty colors they stare at me, as I buzz beneath my skin.
The light from my lighthouse makes the night shake.
Tonight, my inferno is surrounded by water, and the shapeshifters can drown.
They cannot get to me because my grandmother was a witch, she taught me how to decipher things with no sound.
© Mimi Caneda Mata