Violence was always the answer. The only one to be heard by those who would listen not to reason or plea, not to fact or fear.
When the wind dies down and the rains have gone, and the animals are yet to stir from their winter slumber, that is a silent time.
From a time long gone and a future made uncertain, such moments are few and far between, moments remembered even less when they have passed despite each being so profound.
When even the sound of thoughts dies down from whisper to nothings, and the breath and heart are again ignored by ear and mind alike.
So comes the silence without warning, quietly announcing its presence, and making itself known only when it has abruptly and long since made itself all there is.
So does it conquer moments in time, subltly and in its own way, too late to change or charge against, for it has already won.
But the silence is a conqueror which can be welcome as well as feared. A moment to embrace, reflect and allow to lead to dream.
She was always strange, that woman on the hill. A mother of many, she guarded her children behind the walls and hedges she’d grown and built for years.
The memories of the fading lights remain, though years have passed.
That which would glow so strong and strikingly, with frame within them, as a moon in the night sky dims the stars about it.
It crept in on a quiet morning, without a word or whisper to betray itself. The sleepers never knew of its presence, dreaming dreams of regret, lust or hopes for what might be if only..