Random poetry

Why is it that when silence is closest to me, my thoughts drift off like snow in the wind
Towards fields of placid sorrow in melancholic smiles. Safe is how I feel with its velvet cloack draped around me. And yett… Silence and sorrow go hand in hand and if the pool of tranquility resides amids the dying willows then happyness is the illusion of sound. Or is sadness the echo of silence.

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