a poem about Nothing

Noise heard by only those who listen not

yet want the most.

It fights a war with cowardly soldiers,

quick to retreat, to whimper from pain; yet rise again too slow, 

anticipation lapping at your heels, yet tread behind

to chase their own tails.

Not lost, but never able to be found.

And is she to be found? Or not to be found?

The lady that lays in each man’s bed when he retires

or perspires

or expires

but keeps her distance and holds her tongue within her mouth,

opened for passion, not for fame.

And when that comes and tempts a man with fate,

that most potent pheromone perfume,

yet draws back just before, as if to say…

What?

It is a miracle of memory, or of its fault,

that man remembers all his friends, and all his loves, 

even those he would forget,

and yet knows not the speech of his most cherished mistress, 

knows not her person,

not her appearance,

nor her most voluptuous characters in any more than passing description—

just her name.

And it comes not from her.

She has more important things to say,

this lady that lays in a each man’s bed when he retires

or perspires

or desires

but keeps her distance and holds her tongue within her mouth.

In each man’s life, the silence speaks but twice.