In Silence

 


Tick, tick, tick.

The clock minds it’s own business

as the room breathes softly.

All is quiet, dim, and sparse,

except there is a window,

and the air seeps through, so cold.

I shiver now, in silence.


Originally written in 2004, age 18


Enjoy reading Purple Ashes In the Sky on Blogger and consider

supporting the book via purchase or donating to my Go Fund Me

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Purple Ashes In The Sky

Purple ashes  in the sky. At dusk they fall  as my dreams turn to dust. They were of silk, but it was lust. Unreal was the zeal where diamonds encrust.  There's no chance to be cut or shined amid the rut  of not fitting like the cut of a “normal” kind of strut. My walk's not with a limp, but it is with a sway. Most people don't think my way, and it's battered me  today. I thought I would know the way, but I'm still climbing higher. It is odd, and it is dire. I was born  to be stuck this way. Without typical tools, without typical rules, I'm in my own school of life and wearing these painful shoes, somehow paying the dues  while my heart wears a bruise. And I wheeze  from these ashes. They look purple to me as they fall from the mauve sky  where my dreams flew up  to die because those dreams were just  a lie. Some people get by and some people try, but they're trapped under the rhythm. It's a dice, and it's a schism  It's a priv...
Read more

Whistling In The Dark

  Black ice crystals shine like whistles whistling in the dark, whistling through the park  of trees and benches barren. Subtly it'll wear down  the backs of every fool  who turns away, but cool  bearing backs to weather  so cruel. 2017 Enjoy reading Purple Ashes In the Sky on Blogger and consider supporting the book via purchase or donating to my Go Fund Me .
Read more

Caul-de-sac

  I'm sitting on the edge of the Caul-De-Sac looking at one of my childhood homes. On a dark and cold and crisp  October night  back in 1995, my heart now roams... There are handprints in the cement on the driveway etched in the shadows. Messy writing in the cement bares a name of mine now fallow. But I still know who she is and I'm looking outside and from within, and now  my brooding soul hovers  in a shawl, black and knit feet one inch above the ground under streetlights dim and lit... The centered streetlight dimly bathes me in a familiar shade of orange, and a crow’s perched on the rim. Silently he stares me down as I brood with a dripping frown with black slate running down my cheeks. He doesn't make a sound. This is the greatest, deepest grief, grieving for relief. I tried so hard to make it last, even though I barely grasped  my vibrance, muffled by all the noisy shuffles. Then I got lost... and I felt daft. Then, well, of course they crudely laughe...
Read more