The Voice Within
I hear the whistles
of times forgotten.
That asserted truth
lies wasted on the reeds.
Listening, intently
Concerntrating on a hope
Slowly and henceforth
Was a metamorphosis of sound
The cicadain shrieks therein molded
Into the peace of flute
Looking I exhaled
And painstakingly I retreated
To ponder this sudden change
When suddenly from the barren south lands
Swept in a dry wind
With seeds of uncertainty.
The wind, meant to cloud judgment
And with it, to silence this peace
Where was I to go,
Because although the voice within said left
I could not see the burdens of that choice
How could I be sure of this entreaty?
Deceipt of a desperate man
Or the indiscretions of youth?
Although now the shrieks were defeaning
The wind was blinding so the pain of touch surpassed that of its hearing
Even though the hope of it all was in sight,
the vision was now a blur
The times had now been forgotten
The voices have been silenced to rage
Well doubt found lodging through the wind
And judgement was corrupted
Insomnia of truth or ignorance of peace?
The uncertainty IS Deafening
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