There is a sound imperceptible,
stumbling to the cusp of the ear -
there is a word unsaid, tasted neither
by tongue nor pen.
Unbidden nudges these,
sauntering in like some cat
on hushed paws, weaving in then out,
sweetly soft distractions troubling sturdy legs.
These muted messages, purred in isolation
leave hint of neither source nor purpose,
they are just born, then expire.
Mostly I run away, as primitive man
must have scampered before rolling stones
or gawked with high brow and squat jaw
at crisp lightning spears.
Sometimes I turn up the music, consume things
or people, then grind time into mortar,
fill each vacant synapse with clatter.
“Hold me, please, but from a distance
and only for today.”
That is all there is. I am suddenly sick
and fear I shall live.
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