The silence of the heart rest its soul in the wind that blows through the corridors of the house. It sees the silhouette of a dried dead baby breath against the tired sun. How long will it shine till its tired again, how long will the shadow cast till its sunset. If I lower my eyes can I raise it to heaven, if I look away will it miss my presence.
The wind flows through the breath of my baby in silence by the spinning fan. It feels the age of the dying cot in fresh paint against the softness of her cloth. How long can she shine before its radiance is tired again, how long will her sigh last till its quiet again. When she awakes will she see heaven in us, if I stumble will she forgive my humanness.
Does the silence speaks, and turns to rest. In its slight opened eyes does it see the silhouette of the ever-present comfort.
Breathe, selah. And find strength to rise.
