Diamonologue

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... ~