Down the halls, walking among the walls
of silence, mine and Of, and wonder?,
should I speak in words of thunder,
shatter the empty spaces of either,
or quietly refrain and do neither,
display nothing of what lies behind
those empty spaces - by kind?
Winds so silent, scream, on their way
down the hallways of my brain,
tearing to shreds, what is left
of the curtains that hide emotions.
Hide from those seekers of the soul,
who might care to know
what it is that protects the weakened spirit.
A spirit that waits for a sound so soft,
so pure, so innocent, it enlightens,
lightens the beating heart so heavy
with sadness, creating depressions
that are but gigantic holes
in the life of what is left
of a living being.
An organism - reaching beyond,
beyond it's single celled existence,
beyond it;s sterile, four cornered room -
am I, reaching out, trying to be more then
the nucleus of a protozoan, I am becoming,
more then the vapours of Saint Elmo's fire,
reaching out for warmth, passion, compassion.
B. J. "A" 2
December 24th 2010
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield