The Sound of Silence

The Greeks used to start
their poems with prayer
but I haven’t seen my muse
for longer than I care
to remember,
even though her hair
wraps my mind in confusion
every night
the moment my head hits the pillow.

So what will you do,
will you say a prayer too?

I could try,
if you insist on seeing through
realities
that ought to be –
the catalysts and symbology –
the way we understand what we would see
even though gods don’t hang from trees

anymore

than we bother to light votive candles
amongst the stones of the ancient beliefs.

O, Muse!

These words are ordinary,
they seem so far
from the Bard’s eloquence
or the psalms of Man…

Sometimes I wonder if you understand who I really am…

You?

You’re just some kind of I am Sam.
The simplest kind of Sam I Am,
who does not like green eggs and ham
more or less
than other things that are given to us
by other people who tell us to love
them even though the stars above,
on the topic of their content,

are silent –

All things are the same…

What, is that a question?

No, a statement.
Or perhaps a Schrodinger’s statement,
because it is both void and meaning,
it’s just another stupid maxim teaming
like fish that hold memories
worse
than some kind of Sam I Am –

But Sam,
I am,

and none of this makes any sense,
can’t you see the way I hope,

sort of,

for some kind of
Connection?
Sometimes it feels like I am becoming

less because of other people;

and so,
I will eat green eggs and ham
if you’ll
just speak to me
Sam I Am.

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