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It is not the distant hills from which
the silent echos stir; I thought it so,
but I had given them too much God--
It was too full an eloquence
that they had fed upon;
They were not mine alone to give.
There was that persistent thrum
within my chest, inarticulate, defiant,
laughing to itself, uncaring
of my restlessness. The mind
was pushed aside, sensation brushed
with urgency--a happening I must await
in every now, every thrum that seems a part of me.
It fades, returns as an incessant echo...
and is my sanity enfolded there?
Does it matter?
No, not at all. You know
the lines are just a catharsis.
T h r u m...