There is that kind where pages of a notebook
Rustle with the passing wind but lack a freedom that fallen leaves enjoy,
And you hear this.
The gentle thrum of an engine, once jarring now accustomed,
Motors away or rests a while, like an ear-worm in your mind,
Strangely subdued but with a certain presence,
Exacerbated in a quietness where voices have turned away.
As nature serenades Hermes from and Artemis into a resounding silence,
The voices of dusk lay birds to their nightly rest
And weave a new pattern upon your soul.
There is that which derives its sound form the shushed discomfort,
The noise of mum conversation striking invisible walls
Between people, two or more.
An infallible sense of palpable discord, sparks that have flown and may well again
For the avoidance of which certain topics remain beyond reproach
And those to use have at-length been exhausted.
In that moment of aural nothingness, the glint of a star
Or the sun’s bright smile, forcibly noticed
To attempt to not probe again the breach of that which
Has brought them together, in different solitudes of their own.
There is that, intensely personal, where your own voices
Come flooding to fore in your head,
Threatening to tear down your facade of relative normalcy.
Like a disease, but not invasive for they are ours to live with,
Not infectious, for they prey only upon our insolent moments of peace,
But lethal, for they incept an inquiry into the darker embers of a torn soul.
Here, me, myself and I separate into voices, three or more,
Pulling and enticing in different directions, forcing us to cower under covers
In a silence, just like this, where there seems no escape
From a tyranny imposed by us on ourselves.
The photo is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: [ˈpraɦa]