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Lay within me,

    The colloquy shrouded in hushed tones,

Afraid to speak too boldly.
                Allow me to read between the lines
  of uncertainty and doubt
secrets heavier than the body that
Bears them
  I collect them, they are cinder blocks on my shelf
Let the silence become laden
      and more permanent than the broken syllables  
     more vehement than the heaves of your sigh
      I do not need your words,
  dolor
envelopes us softly
       and lulls you to sleep.

There is an art to
  the thoughts that control you.
      They are
Whispers on the cuffs of jacket sleeves,
     That no name can be given to
The
Slowly dying tree, branches curling inward
    Retracting upon itself
Self depricating, and worth nothing.

The morning

Splintered in the stillness,
    Illuminated by the dull
Morning glow
She is empty,
 Wrapped in the limbs of refuge,
She is mundane,
Infatuated with stability
And the ways
Conformity cacoons her,
She stares at the crumpled maps
   Allowing her mind to trace the paths
She no longer wanders
She breathes slowly,
Exhaling her aspirations
And replacing them with docility.