In the silence I hear music.

In the silence I hear music.

It fills the space

Between the whispers,

That sometimes

Rile.

And rise into a scream

Of fruitless noise.

A futile repetition

Of life events.

A past,

That will not return,

And may never

Have been

As it appears.

But still, writ large

It will barge

Into my thoughts,

With such regularity

As to be a time

I could even

Set my watch by.

It strikes at night,

When dusty sleep,

With tempting

Tendrils, intertwined

Between each

Listless,

Drifting thought,

In gentle search of

Damaged feelings,

Reaching for the

Pathway to my soul,

Is roughly

Dragged away.

And ragged misconceptions

Formulate

A flawless plan,

To heighten

My perception,

Lay me open

To their plotting

And subversion.

Until, with subtle

Introspection,

The music plays.

A violin of grace

And beauty.

A cello, so deep

And mellow,

A guitar with long sustain,

A song, with words

Of telling repetition,

To steal me back again,

And yet,

Still I lie, within

A darkened cell,

Deep down, In a

Fortress of my

Own making,

And kept so

Closely guarded,

Against the wilder

Excess of the night owls,

Visitors

Who bring me down,

With their

Senseless contribution,

Endless revolution,

Songs without end.

As were there

At my beginning,

And unless

I find a way

To still

Their restless singing,

They will stay

With me,

Even through the silence

Of my ending.