Mills of Silence

Our home lies amidst mills of Silence where we often float on the boats outside our foggy windows sheathed by curtains. They hover over the tides that the Moon heaves by a string each night; and this string then threads through the hollow of my spine, tying my weathering bones to the fingertips of an Oarsman.

I walk over blue sheets of water and drown in the intoxicating liquor of Thought that the veiled Oarsman pours over my silvering hair. And I watch the oars make deliquescent mountains upon the ebrious indigo floor as my legs fall to slumber and my arms forget their limpid film of salt.

As Night is hoisted up by the same translucent string, we rest our craned necks, heated by the lamplight, as our ears whisper to each other laconically; over the years they have created a Symphony; one that we concede, and yet dance furtively around.

Perhaps we are Moons that reflect expressions of joy with every ripple in the water. Or, perhaps we are daffodils tucked into the corners of a collapsing bridge as water, like the serene ardor of innocence, flits Silently about.

And here I cede my arms to you, so that we may share these grapes of verisimilitude that we have watched from behind our windows, echoing, in the mills of Silence.