There is silence in the words we say.
Buried under piles of red clothed
backs and duct-taped mouths.
Streets lined with blurred out figures—
their faces turned away—and lying under
the garbage is the silent generations.
The kids who saw more backs and hateful
slurs than kind eyes and outstretched hands.
There is silence in their downturned mouths,
That we chose to overlook. In the crowds that
gather around the young boy who is too
weak to defend himself. In the not-so-
innocent bystanders, who gape and laugh,
but whose mouths remained nailed shut—
even as his body loses life…
There is silence in the way I bite my lip and turn away.
You have the freedom,
to recognize the silence
encompassed in the early
morning mist as it drags across
the Earth. To change the song
that burdens the ear, buried
in the church bells strange
clamor as they screech and
howl to the wind. But
there is no freedom in bending
the flat world to fit a sphere.