Behind These Gates

Right behind these high gates
There is a place
Where people fall silent
Quiet even in a face of violence
Everyone is one, as if from birth
Like a wet rag, sound is squeezed from earth
Whilst a fatal weapon is spewed with ease
Sound is experienced, and appeased
The crunch of the rubble under feet
The ding of pistols to no beat.

Two kinds of people enter this place
One cannot stand the silence faced
He tries to make himself heard
Amongst a crowd that seems absurd
He throws his hands in a fit of rage
Curls his face into inhumanly shapes
To make contact with a soul, pleading
Well, he might as well be bleeding.

The other type takes it in
The nothingness that cradles them
The calmness seeps through again
Not a whisper of a word.
Silence is the only language heard.

I stepped through the gates
Of the world on mute.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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