THE RED LINE

THE RED LINE

Monday, December 1, 2014

VOICES

VOICES

On the other side of quiet

when I am all alone

and the very last echoes of human conversation

 clatter into meaningless noise

and make their absence felt

by unbroken stillness;

it is then that my heart begins to race

because it is then that they will come.

The drip of the kitchen faucet

the on and off of the old radiator

the train whistle in the distance

the sonorous tones of the harbor horns

the whoosh of a passing automobile through a puddle...

they speak to me in their own voices

sibilant or strident

hissing or hooting

or whispering -- which is by far the very worst --

they tell me

each in its own critical, judgmental tone

that I cannot be sane if I think that they are alive;

why do they tell me this?

Why do I need to tell you this when there is a great chance

that you don't really exist, either?



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POET VERITAS

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