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| Topic: sounds from the edge | |
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Allegedly, I wrote this a couple years ago...
but it hardly makes sense now. Ah, I guess the Muse exists only in a fraction of space and time. Anyway, tell me what you think! The darkness, a void from which there is no escaping. The silence, devoid of sound or color; suffocating. Yet just on the edge of this there is faceless noise, of women alternating: singing hymns and chattering. Reaching, a fruitless hand seeks forth finding only cold. Striving, for a light always just out of reach. Yearning, for the warmth of that outward noise. The darkness, a void from which there is no escaping. The silence, devoid of sound or color; suffocating. |
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Allegedly, I wrote this a couple years ago... but it hardly makes sense now. Ah, I guess the Muse exists only in a fraction of space and time. Anyway, tell me what you think! The darkness, a void from which there is no escaping. The silence, devoid of sound or color; suffocating. Yet just on the edge of this there is faceless noise, of women alternating: singing hymns and chattering. Reaching, a fruitless hand seeks forth finding only cold. Striving, for a light always just out of reach. Yearning, for the warmth of that outward noise. The darkness, a void from which there is no escaping. The silence, devoid of sound or color; suffocating. On the edge of perhaps She lives her purpose, to silence, To still in the middle where nowhere posts a sign civilization once spoke, laughed In a frame where wood held silences, noise and birth Silence muses in the revelation that distance is cousin relative to the impending deluge brought on in tidal and waves unable to whisper. She is vast, she is to suffocate In the stark, white silence with he who stands in her sandy blast Relinquish to her passion Yield to her purpose, sleep Bathe and immerse For eternity is as you blink A Musing on the winds. Raine Les 6/10/2008 |
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