Silence, like a shroud of death,
Extends infinitely etched,
Covering fragile egos
High-strung, taut, stretched.
I wonder what you’re doing
Thoughts of you hovering inside my head
I do so want to reach out,
Slice the silence and leave it dead
But being so afraid of what I will find,
Into my shell I retreat
Draw up the shroud a little tighter
It is now laced with weary defeat.
Inside it I still conceal myself,
Cuts on wrist-- a practised chop
Terrified to slice the silence now
Lest the bleeding does not stop.
© 2011 Preeti Shenoy
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