Silently Serve, Silently Die

Roots, like hearts are hidden,

under where people blindly step.

The fruit on the tree is made,

nourished, and sacrificed for

by that, which is unseen.

Not until the soil is dead,

and all the water is drank, dry,

does the fruit tree tip over,

and the broken heart leak,

and shows what layed silent

under the feet of fools

a inverted crown of roots,


an abused highway of veins,


the dying servant

kissed  by fire,

turned to ash,

before the empty sockets,

of starving eyes.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert


Let your tale, be poured into my ears

My friends, I humbly ask for you to consider the following notions, before you release the swarm.  In conversation, with other human beings that inhabit this world, please entertain the idea that their story doesn’t match yours.  All people, perhaps, have unique back stories, that may identify them, haunt them, or inspire them. The fibrous stands of time are woven together for us all over years and years of experiences.  Yet, the patterns, shapes, and perspectives are vastly different.  Some fabric is cut, some are burned, some have vibrant stories and colors, some depict great tragedies.  Words are not defined by your strings, but by theirs.  Father, may be a word that is equal to the devil.  Mother may mean perpetual anger and criticism.  Please dear friends, I beg you to pause, and allow rumination to take your thoughts on a flight.  High above your own city and town, where events that have happened to you are lost, and the vast landscapes of another person unfold below you.  Become the Hawk, high in the cool breeze, seeking to capture their story, hiding in the rocks.  Swoop down, and consume their tale.  Live, with them in their moment of storytelling.  Listen, learn, and most importantly, love.

 Take the institution of marriage.  Why, to me, it is a fine thing.  My parents stayed married their whole life, as did my wife’s parents.  I watched them endure mighty storms, but they were as steadfast as a rocky shore.  My tale, is my tale.  Other souls may have the word marriage fall upon their ears as a ball of thorns beings pushed into their heart with a glowing orange iron from the fire.  A man may have used his might and authority to foul innocence.  A woman may insult a child because they remind her of the man who failed, and left her alone.  There are thousands and thousands of stories.  Consider, listening.  Discover what life is to someone else.

The swarm of your words, waits like an army.  As the ruler you choose what to arm them with, when you unleash them into conversation.  Will you attack in foolishness, or will you send an unarmed scout, with ready pen and blank page to learn the tale of life, from another.

My friends, please consider carefully concerning the swarm.  For if you attack, for the sake of yourself, you will become a defined agent of pain, and burn another thread of time black before it is sewn permanent into the tapestry of someone else’s life.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert


Sorrow’s Hideout

Dirty water dripped on my head from a moldy wooden basement beam.  Light spilled into the room from the cracks in the ceiling.  I was trapped in a deep stone hole.  My wrist was clasped with a 10 centimeter iron cuff, it rubbed the skin underneath into a blistery rot.  I pulled against in, a 3 meter rusty chain that was bolted into solid rock.  Every time I woke up, in the hideout a man sat across from me.  He looked angry, he wore ratty clothes, and smell like clean water and soap had not hit his body for months.  I waved my hands at him, he would mock my gestures.  I asked when he would let me out of this prison.  He never answered.

I found a loose stone in the floor.  I pushed away the gray dust that shrouded it.  I cracked and broke my fingernails clawing at the buried stone.  When I finally uprooted the rock, warm red blood fell from my fingers into the dry dust.  There was a note, handwritten in ink.  It was on a cut piece of soft tan leather.  It simply read…

Confess to me, all of your wrongs…

Call upon my ear, I want to hear from you…

You can’t see me, buy I am watching you,

I am upstairs.

If you speak, I will hear you.

I will heal you, if you would but simply,


I sat in silence, in my own pile of deification and filth.  I was too proud, and too embarrassed, to try.  I was hungry, and ashamed.  I saw the filthy man return.  He sat there in silence looking at me.  I hated him.  I finally broke.  I looked up to the ceiling, I said, “I don’t know who you are, but I found your note, would you be willing to help me?”

A basement light came on.  I saw the stone room had a large archway, with a giant mirror beside it.  The keys to my chains hung from a rusted nail on the wall.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert