Muted in Ink (rewrite)

Oh, how the intricacies taunt us with their secrets,
and the wind leaves only trails
for us to follow blindly.

These words take with them our sense of Self
as we desparately chase
the silver-tongue of their salvation.

Pillowy anguished-cheeks
fall
down
to smear the shamed ink that is left within our hungry pen
still foolishly scrawling
illegible visions
across the
white-irony
that is our silence.


As remnants of sense erode,
our words remaining
stand
only
as proof
that we had tried in vain

to keep up with eternity.


    The distant highway hum remains a mystery,
            though still we strain our ears.
    The symmetry of pomegranate, only a muse,
            despite our digging palms.
    And the clash of wind versus tree, merely a suggestion,
            smiling back our extended, pleading grasp.

    And we blasphemize ourselves,
    inadvertently,
    and the ineffability that is our muse,
    while seeking redemption
    and solemnity
    at the tip of a soil-covered pen.