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