What's Loud Is Quiet
At night
It’s dark.
It’s silent.
But somehow I hear screams.
Memories.
Things I never said.
Things I have yet to say.
My sighs.
I hear them,
But I have no feeling in my lungs.
Color is fun.
I tried painting once.
It worked for a moment,
Until my portraits refused to stay still.
Now I stare outside upon my windowsill.
At night
There’s somehow more to see.
My mind is staring
Right back at me.
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