The Voice Within

I hear the whistles of times forgotten. That asserted truth lies wasted on the reeds. Listening, intently Concerntrating on a hope Slowly and henceforth Was a metamorphosis of sound The cicadain shrieks therein molded Into the peace of flute Looking I exhaled And painstakingly I retreated To ponder this sudden change When suddenly from the barren south lands Swept in  a dry wind With seeds of uncertainty. The wind, meant to cloud judgment And with it, to silence this peace Where was I to go, Because although the voice within said left I could not see the burdens of that choice How could I be sure of this entreaty? Deceipt of a desperate man Or the indiscretions of youth? Although now the shrieks were defeaning The wind was blinding so the pain of touch surpassed that of its hearing Even though the hope of it all was in sight, the vision was now a blur The times had now been forgotten The voices have been silenced to rage  Well doubt found lodging through the wind And judgement was corrupted  Insomnia of truth or ignorance of peace? The uncertainty IS Deafening