Silent orchestra. Silent for now while my ears grow accustomed. New sounds, new melodies but the beat is as old as time.
Mute, gagged and caged in this invisible holding pen. My ears ring, my jaw clenches from the howling hollow pressure of it. Silence shrieking in the cavity. Find the valve and release.
Gregor Samsa like I click and scuttle
My north paws rubbing together in waiting
I’ll cling to the ceiling yet
That I’m certain would more normal seem than any experience I’ve had so far
hollow -hearted whole
leave well alone,
Take me I am ready.
Sketches of Spain.
Postcards that got written only to languish on the fridge door
Awaiting what, divine intervention?
Full of best intentions until the steam runs out.
You’re thought of!
Pangs of distance muted in the echo chamber message side.
More fodder for the procrastinators volumes.
Wish you were here, you get the drift
Probably not or subconscious telepathy I underestimate.
Within the crypt laying undisturbed for centuries is an unknown force of immeasurable magnitude
Sealed off from the outer world to avoid contamination, it undergoes a mysterious process
no trace of it exists, at surface level all is discreet
Unknowingly waiting in dutiful living the world churns
a hollow is hollowed from beneath
quietly imperceptibly new formations and permutations evolve, dissolve in unobserved fractal dancing
to a droning hum of distant industry accompanied
Trying to become that thing.
To hatch, to emerge from the egg.
The egg I’ve been in for so long I feared I had become the egg.
Now can I see it for a shell.
A shell I must beat my way out of.
And so I thrust back my head and trust the force of my knowing beak to unleash me.
Evening sun, shadows on the page, the blinds across my hand noir like.
The day, a day, what a thing.
How much it holds, how far it reaches if one really cares to observe it.
Peace now. Light dancing on the leaves creates the appearance of movement.
I’m here once more with my familiar the singing fridge.
My trusted companion and round the clock sentinel of four years standing.
The last of the summers offering.
I can feel the mood shifting.
Cogs of change turning.
Hormones alternating in a slow quiet fashion as my evening self clocks in.