Scratched out from a silent womb
I've grown into a tumult:
ever-buzzing roar and whine
of tortured stone, and groans
of men heaving rock. Even in
the quiet hours before the
engines start, breaths not mine,
dreams not mine animate my heart.
What has this crescendo consumed?
I scratch into the womb of
me to find the silence to be.
1 comment:
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vegus168
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