poem

Dec 11, 2004 11:38

The phones are ringing off their hooks
Momentarily up he looks
Then down again, resuming work
Dismissing the sound as his mind's own quirk

So many questions they're waiting to ask
Not to be bothered, he stays on task
He knows they'll call back if they've something to say
But how will he hear them? He works all day

And into the night as the ringing goes on
Fingers to temples, he's too withdrawn
To notice the sound doesn't come from his head
As he slowly but surely starts filling with dread

His work is his life, or so he will tell
Fed up with the noise, he tries to yell
He's unable to speak as panic grabs hold
And grows in him fast, like a vertebrate mold

Despair closes in as he chokes on his words
Wastes precious adjectives, pronouns and verbs
The sound won't escape from his throat 'fore it blocks
Trapped for eternity in his voice box

A silent scream causes his body to quake
Violently trembling as his bones break
His world falls to pieces in less than a second
Lured in by the cold hand of Death as it beckoned.

opinions, ideas?
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