This muteness

This muteness

that lipreads you
on the dumb cuneiform
of memory
That invisible jet
somewhere
passing
at the speed of sound,
its past tense
gone
before
its gone again.
I wish there were
a saviour
to forsake me
for this feeble
prayer.
But even God
is known for
his love
of words
that must not
be said.
I wish I were deaf.
Not hear the silence
that says,
Paul, forget me.
And
I
wish
I
could forget
my name,
who
I was.

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