Caesar's crippled gaze, lost in dismay at the silence of Jesus. This poem can go no further, Gino, until you scrape the moss from your heart and discover, in its center, Jesus. While the Creator carefully drafts each Day's speech, the unformed Ocean heaves against the weight of silence. As I return to your bed with words I cannot say, my feet weave a tapestry of longing and silence. With a fine brush and white paint, the teenager pinstripes his old car, a reprieve from the bite of silence.
Insomnia rides into the room in every whisper.
The June heat penetrates even the margins of your thoughts. To revive your mind's function, anoint gently with oil of rose. Gino, you have the flower's name, its fragrance, even a verb.