I never think about the silence anymore

I wake in my glade of flowers
And weave them in my hair
Purpline, sunsets of ophar
Bleeding the early hours
Wake the bird to prayer
From green and creeping bowers

I never pause to wonder
At the starkness of the quiet
Or the fates of those that pry it
And are lost to thunder
Without murmur or violet
Fleeces to herald their founder.

The scents of nectar, dew
Tangle me in unknowing delight
Jasmine of the day and night
Foams my slumber anew
Frothy over marble white
Dark-eyed with summer's blue

I speak in thoughts; they reply
To me in kind, to me alone
I graze my elbows on the stone
That blankets this one's lie
Moss-ridden like a ruined throne
Scribbled with goodbye

Did I plant all these blooms?
Was it to keep us company?
Scenting us a symphony
Of iridescent perfumes
Where sorrow is our enemy
In his withered, greying plumes?

There is an odd memory untouched
Of a flock of black and weeping
Some friends too long asleeping
And others who over-retched
Broke when dark was creeping
In the age of illness blotched

"Plague," doctors hushed me nigh
I did not understand their creed
Or why bile did blacken bleed
Until I stood alone to cry
(But there is no need
To hold that memory)

This glade is littered with pall
Under rosemary for remembrance
But I do not think of penance
(Blossoms' odors guise the smell)
I never think about the silence
They are sleeping, 'tis all.