Sore Eyes, Shut.

We are nothing, in the end,

but echos in a room greater than we 

had once thought

a room filled, by large, with

the murmurings of doubt-

but what wonderful sounds we can leave!

shouts of ecstasy reverberating like 

the fluttering of a bird's wings,

startled and hurdling itself 

into the sky

or the sound of our own inner peace;

a sound like deafening stillness broken 

by a single drop falling

from the moist ceiling of a limestone 

cathedral into 

an immense 

underground 

pool.

We spend lifetimes sending out cries of pain,

sobbing to higher beings,

screaming at inanimate objects,

or staring

silent

through dry, red eyes at

the blur of humanity

silence is not true peace

but neither is the outcome

of bloody lungs,

snapped vocal cords

and voices lost.

If we can be anything than let us be

a whisper of encouragement

respect 

and love

echoing forever

and ever

in the wind.

Moist

Searching for an ever-changing lust

in a sickly,

humid

darkness.

Hope is left on the brighter side of the door

and the desire

for meaning beyond

was abandoned long ago;

you're looking for a glimmer of heavenly breath;

for a cool breeze on the back of a sweaty spine,

for salvation-

in a den of dripping honey, but

there is no choice now

there is no trickling light to follow to the surface

and no greater meaning will be revealed

only regret,

disappointment,

and detachment

don't think of the glimmer that might be

don't think of gentile wind

and smiles over checkered picnic cloth

take both feet off the floor

crawl deep into the moldy, musty sheets

and let the devils dripping tongue

lap you into the maw.