Words are anxious and lost
before settling in meaning.
Their struggles are against themselves,
for silence is their paradise lost.
It is for something that is always within them,
something they disturb by their very existence,
something they lose, by their very existence,
something they lose, searching for.
Each act reverberate a void that only would be filled with a reaction,
each voice clings to another,
universe continues in endless echoes,
even though all it is searching for,
is silence.
We fill the world with our imperfection,
searching for
the perfection.
The only thing that waves are prowling for and rising
is calm,
