The silence of the night is meek
and fearful. Heartbeat rising up into
an age full of arpeggio. The tension
born of modern days restocks itself
within a nightmare's rage. The stage
is always set by someone other than
yourself. The characters are alien.
You run, and yet it still descends.
Into some inner landscape of the mind.
Alive and real beyond the bounds of time.
A sound, a scent, an aftertaste - not much
is needed to transpose the artifacts of life
into the strife of running from an inner death.
Thoughts scoured by the hours of your plight.
As if a draft of chaos entered into
that small world that you had ordered.
Blowing all the surety apart.
Erasing all the lines you once had drawn
upon the chart that was your life.
Such little things can blow it all apart.
A squeaking hinge.
Some little pang of guilt.
And all you'd thought you'd built
comes tumbling down...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .