Surreality

Sitting under the blossoming tree,
hearing the sail-white-wind blow the branches,
petals scattering to the wind,
listening in vain for an answer,
A trill of notes in the silence that surrounds,
A ray of sunshine in the gathering night,
dissonant echoes from afar,
promising hope, but never delivering,
the quiet is stifling, but can't scream,
can't break it,
a perfect façade presented, 
all in an effort to maintain it,
So that the screams in his head won't escape,
so the wind can lull away the pain,
so the petals might fill the emptiness,
hearing little notes, turns to their maker,
A small smile playing, a fleeting hope,
Rising from the foot of the tree,
walks with her in the shade.
Silent, and flowing, hoping to hear her happiness,
to hear through the silence she exhudes,
the deathly still she embraces,
even behind her smile and laugh,
Hearing an echo of silence returns,
without answer, to his place,
staring into the emptiness contained.
Unknown to death, yet Unknown of life,
The realm of twilight, solely his domain,
Where silence is word, more powerful than sound,
where Life is a weapon, 
sunshine a threat,
to push one onto either side of the razor's edge,
Yet he sits, ever skillfully balancing between the two,
Unwilling to fail,
but unsure as to succeed,
caught between the worlds he can see, but never find,
The greatest irony, at which he feels,
its all within his mind.
Only the tree is real.
He is not.