the sound of rain

in the foggy distance lies sheets coming loose from their moorings

stationed in a cloud

a battalion awaits above me

frogs in my ears

when i loosed the volley 

not gunshots did i hear

but rampant ringing and footsteps piercing through the air

and then through the violent undertow a message did come here

fast among the waking brittle now

in deft shoes i kept going

but as my heart begins to give out

i can’t help but slowing

and shaking i go down

doing nothing less than knowing 

that through the foolhardy sludge the river will keep flowing

so to the honor that will stay unsung

to the violent skies and the rains shall they come

with the silent fleeting screams a river will run dry



The beginning and the end.

Space is filled with it.

ever-expanding and growing.

I can’t stand silence.

It makes me itch, uncomfortable in my own skin.

I grasp for the smallest of sounds, but only silence remains.

we take sound for granted, yet some who live without it miss out.

Though we have learned to repair this.

What I would give to hear sound for the first time again.

Beautiful Sounds

The blinds are closed, but light still shines through. One bed in the room is neatly made, but the other is messy. There are papers spread atop it and a guitar case, open but empty, is sitting on the floor beside the bed. There is a desk that spreads across the small room, a bookshelf on either side. The right side of the desk is neat, the chair nicely pushed in and every single book in it’s proper place. The left side, however, has pens lacking ink, pencils with snapped tips, and crumpled up papers that failed to reach the recycling box.

Her back is red and her neck is long. She is a gorgeous woman. She sings loudly; beautiful sounds spewing out from her mouth. Six strings race up her neck, vibrating and pulsing; they are her vocal chords. A small hand gently kneads her neck while another softly pulls on her strings; they are her reason to sing. She is nameless, but people call to her. She is faceless, but easily recognized. Intricate tattoos of vines twirl around her face with a silky white dove in the midst of it all. She is an it, and it is a guitar.

Some people love sports. Others love the sciences. But I love music.

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