The silence isn't unbearable.
The loneliness is almost peaceful.
The numbness calmes the soul...
Like fire clearing away the ugly
or impure
or the sick, weak at center.
But this solitude is darkness
broken only by the slow vibrations of thoughts
carelessly ceasing from moment to the next.
And I am the only constant;
or are my feelings,
or the silent continuity of afterward?
If only the separation of there and here
were dismal and unseen, perhaps
a gentle word could plummet life anew.
No:
Cautious inaccuracy in vowels
bringing closed eyes open.
Nothing appears un-ordinarily stark like blackness,
and light sheers at the tired pupils
adjusting to the necessary once more.
Moments work onward.
Breath is challenged by will alone.
The next stage is dawned.
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