My Mistress
What is death if not supreme silence,
Have you ever craved the silk of a quiescent moment?
When the constant barrage of noise around you becomes abhorrent,
And what if the most deafening gabble,
Came from a source that was unavoidable?
Nails on slate but imaginary,
At the base of your skull reverberating,
Now hover in that moment eternally.
As years go by and seasons change,
One thing always stays the same:
The ceaseless racket inside your brain,
Feasting on your sanity at a rate you cannot sustain.
Death is my mistress of solitude,
She flies around me,
An interpretive dance of doom,
Sensually she reminds me,
A painful moment can buy me
An eternity of peace.
Copyright © Laura Davies | Year Posted 2024
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