In a manner of speaking

In a manner of speaking,
I question the silence.
A silence I erased in the hopes of understanding.
But you say everything by saying nothing.

In a manner of speaking,
I crash the silence,
my words like tidal waves come crashing in,
crashing with them what's left unspoken,
shattering the vows you whispered to the wind.

In a manner of speaking,
my words hunt the silence.
The shadows are retreating,
but I only fear silence.
God is silent.
The absence of God is my religion.

In a manner of speaking, I listen.
God is taking shape.
I listen to the whistling in the dark,
echoing the forbidding words,
the enigma of nature,
written in fractals,
a quiet signature of God.

In a manner of speaking, I pray.
I shiver to the horrors of guilt, of confusion and illusion.
I pray to the trees, for I am rooted.
I pray to the sun, for I am burning.
I pray to God, for God is within me.

In a manner of speaking, I write to you.
Words flowing to me,
words filling my throat,
words submerging my existence.
The word is my fourth dimension.

In a manner of speaking,
I suffocate in the realm of consciousness,
for what I am transcending is beyond thought.
Time morphing into sand in my palms,
I cannot hold a grasp of it.

In a manner of speaking,
I refuse to utter a word,
for God is silent.

Silence is my religion.

Hajar Ammar

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