8 November 2019

it's creeping back again, 

this low and constant hum:

a backdrop, opaquely white, 

to daily routine.

it becomes a ringing at night

like a whistle -- a frenetic

soundtrack to thoughts i must 

think, conversations had or

imagined, list after list after 

list, and so many words on 

pages quickly read 

(and nearly forgotten).

and at its metallic center

an urgency -- a heart-pounding, 

water-rushing echo off linoleum 

floors.

i'm running but i don't know

what from or what to and i'm 

certain if i stop the ringing

stops too and i think i'm most 

afraid of the quiet.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Seems to be a pensive almost lost undercurrent. Yet, reaching out to find answer or answers. You lay gentle words, formatted frugally but saying enough to keep the reader here, trying to unravel what was and is in your mind. Life and its hubbub so often glues itself to the Self, near drowning out what you crave for - a calm gentleness that you can call on at whatever decibel you want. if at all.

Unsure that one can attain that calm and quiet by running away. Maybe escape comes from deep inside by shedding too many thoughts, memories, fears.. and sometimes past and overwhelming pleasures. There isn't a perfect silence, it doesn't exist.. Unless within. Perhaps?