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Poem
I feel a choir of raw throats shouting hoarse warnings and then quieting,
Leaving a nervous stillness trembling on the lips of the morning,
Or riding the scrolling text at the bottom of the TV screen.
Something is wrong.
There is a restlessness seeping like mist from the lesions
Of the carnage yet to come, a slow decay,
As if all of life waits with bated breath for the moment
When the finger tightens on the trigger of imminent chaos.
And yet, good people go about their lives,
Whispering prayers in quiet corners, helpless,
Angry, or for some, a numb indifference,
Yet somewhere, hidden in the voids behind their minds,
A shadow stirs from its sleep,
Preparing to rise from the bed of silence. Elsewhere,
Across a nation, more and more cries remain trapped
In the throats of the fallen.
Something is wrong.
I feel the weight of the veil of a starless night,
A veil cast over thoughts, a curtain of anxiety,
And in my mind, a melancholic song drenched in shared human fear.
A faint light slips through the cracks of a broken soul,
Casting shadows in the mental alleys, an eternal dance of hope and fear.
Looking around, I see eyes laden with endless questions,
Reflecting the past and the unknown future, a kaleidoscope of doubts
Interwoven with every silent step, every blink of frozen life.
This persistent unease, an invisible specter,
Haunts my consciousness, a reminder of what might be.
A silent call, where the heart dances in agony,
An elusive respite in the tumult of thoughts.
I wonder if this feeling, this sense that something is wrong,
Could be the silent cry of a profound reality,
Whispering to me from the shadows of existence.
In the flow of my consciousness, I wander endlessly,
Searching metaphors and magical visions,
Hoping to find an answer in the labyrinth of the soul,
For I am bound to this song of unease, waiting for dawn to bring clarity
And to heal this crack in the fabric of life, a sign that perhaps, one day, all will be well.
In the mystical twilight of my thoughts, shadows and light
Weave a ballet of ethereal whispers, each movement a living metaphor,
As dreams and fears converge in the silent depths of being,
Revealing secrets hidden in the vestiges of night, awaiting the promise of dawn.
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