I have knocked several times
patiently await a reply
Yet nothing
Apart, of course, from silence
And you say he is listening
superior
Then a silent devil he must be
For this is torture
To be unheard

Won't you listen to me?

The silent cries of the suicidal
And the needy
The samritatrian phone calls
Last only one hour
Even charity has it’s limit
And the pathetic weather underlines
The plight
With a hapless shower of sleet
when it's supposed to be springtime
I reached out
And toes became cold
Exposed from linen sheets
I hear you made daffodills in your name
and easter hung a cross
yet selfish am I too blame
anyone but me.

Wont you listen dear g?

If so, how will I know you heard?
Without joining thy tribe
the dire and  nodding herd of religion.

I cant do that:

For I saw crusaders and sarasons,
Muslim cloth and monk
And I cannot help
But feel defunct to engage,
In the everlasting curling page,
Of testamant.
I feel hypocrasy you see
except a creeping suspicion
suggests I should be beyond
and the strong hear him if
cleverly shown
in imagination
perhaps

No thanks

Yet still I call
For something
For someone
To hear
The inner voice
I am well aware
Hangs heavy on the ear
Saying

“we create our own silence”