Whatever one might say can be burned down in silence covering our hearts and each silence can be buried into another one <br /> <br />this is the place at which every sleep stops <br />where every step covers itself to dwell down below the unknown <br /> <br />this is the moment at which one can see <br />anything is better than be buried in one's own skin <br />as you can take it off shake it off as if it were <br />an unnecessary piece of garment <br />the whole nakedness is like an endless endeavor <br />to tie oneself up into something that at least looks like sense <br /> <br />some people call it philosophy <br />some people see it as art <br />some people can't help but name it <br />I sometimes like to leave it <br />with no name whatsoever <br />naming it won't help <br /> <br />it'll still bother me <br />for it's an everlasting and neverending effort <br />to reach the highest point in the universe <br />at which the universe itself stops fighting <br />the battle of my life or anybody else's for that matter <br />and surrenders meekly the lamb of my peace <br /> <br />I like to call it a longing <br />an unusual restlessness <br />that can be counted down backwards from ten to zero <br />before its launch <br /> <br />I like to keep it under my skin <br />hoping for thousands of words <br />in thousands of languages <br />to pronounce the secret of being silent <br /> <br />so I guess I'm right <br />I can never name it <br />but I can live it<br /><br />Miroslava Odalovic<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/untitled-1143/
