8:15AM in the Mo(u)rn.

by Lilian Bui

After the monks were gone
There was silence.

Ringing
Lingering
Deafening
Silence.

Silence tilting cough drop wrappers
On his study table;
Silence that congests
A closet full of pin-striped dress shirts,
Woolen vests, and linen pants never to be worn again.
Silence that pauses in front of picture frames
Before heaving a sigh.
Silence over 45's left to gather dust
And model airplanes that will never fly.
Silence stalling typewriter keys from
Their metric lullaby.

Silence that absorbs
The musky odor that tears leave
After they crust and flake
Silence that exposes a vacant, hollow core.
Silence that amplifies
The hands of time
Ticking
Tocking
Mocking those that remain.

We are as dispensable
As the incense that we burn
While wait our turn
To also crust, to flake.

Death - a memory without pain when life departs
But pain in surplus for beating hearts.