Deaf

A single blade of grass. Does it make a sound when it is split down the middle? Perhaps the sound you’d imagine the skin to make when it’s cut? Air silently passing through the newly opened space. I’ve split myself too, and my bones shattered and crumbled into dust in that silent sound. No man nor woman has ever known the true wreckage of my soul. The way the air blows about the few and small sanities that still remain in my abused mind; they are restless. I am small, yet not small minded. If I had a care I could be great, but I adore the shadows too much. A single blade of grass against my cheek, the smell of the cool dirt beneath my head. It is this place I choose to inhabit, a tomb of my own. And when the wind blows the wisps of hair out of my face its whistling at long last turns the silence into sound.