The still of the morning
Expansive grey
Fenced off by glass
An illusion of protection
Or is it just detachement
Words seem to have left me finally
I let them go
Without an adieu
They were nagging
Write, write, write
Went the syncopated tormenting
I buried them
Shut and sealed
Under the mountain of mundane
And bills-paying, house-playing choreography
They were persistent yet
Afflictive, stubborn …
I look up from my coffee
Sun, now flitting on the near still
Grey water
Look closely, it’s not still… like me, it’s keeping up appearances
The wind, the sun, the errant pebble and the bird wings
That tiny boat and the ferry
Flirt mercilessly with it’s quiet
Laws of thermodynamics
Third to be exact
Coil around with lyrics
And my unused, buried, dusty words
Struggle…
Barely audible vampire hiss…
“Don’t wake us up, you can’t just waltz in and wake us up…!
Just because you “feel” poetic… you threw us away like an unloved rag doll
We refuse! You are on your own… go back to your mountain
And your language less musings…
You buried us. The coffin was pretty wood…
We remember.
We remember because, you buried us alive….”
The still of the mourning is ghostlike grey…
Copyright©Nee