Silence of the Still Life

The bellflower lamp bends

Like the branches of a once alive tree

Now dead with the flowering surrender.

The light is a memory

Of the life being remembered

By someone already dead.

The table is a threshold 

Where the line between presence and absence

Wears itself thin and useless.

Just like the cards that fill 

The smooth surface of 

The veil that once seemed tough.

An over turned cup of 

Emptied breath sits there louder

Than any prophecy the 

Pendulum can predict. 

It holds the answers to 

The questions that are not asked.

Books rest heavy with unspoken words.

Spines cracked and ripped

Like the bones of someone

Who once thought that

Words might just be enough to save

Themselves in this world of unspoken promises.

Even then,

The bellflower lamp still glows

The table still holds,

While the cards rest alone.

The pendulum waits to be heard.

And from the silence of the still life

The unspoken words break the quiet.