Your voice, falling

Your voice

falling
falling endlessly
through shadows

of the evening
lengthening on teardust
like light dripping on windows

branching into rooms
trembling with pitchforked silence
with mouths dangling

by an aching thread
that cuts off the suture
on memory peeling away.

This voice, half-empty
runs down the valley of silence
in a radiant blaze

building cities with asphalt  skies
moving softly with a spark
in the tomb of laughter.

Your voice
charred at the edge of speech
straddling the silence of a fall
impassable, unveiled

dangling at the end of the universe
like flesh from a cut
on an unfettered wound,
dripping.

Your voice, your voice
Oh what difference it makes
as it cuts across the silence

shakes the sleep off shadows
lengthening on half-empty windows
and strangles the veil of speech.

Your voice cuts itself on darkrose silence
falling endlessly through the veil,

escapes the cries of children
slaughtered in sleep
and trails off quietly
into the laughter of shadows
that protect the cut with affection —

the cut dangles
by the threadsmoke of your voice
like the last rem(a)inder
of fall

into the tomb of laughter
when the suture dissolves
into the veil of shadows

teardust, threadsmoke and light.

Hour by hour,
we descend lower into pain
by betrayal or love.

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