840. Untitled
It's with burgeoning dismay
to know that the night
brings little if no peace,
with silence a fleeting moment,
broken by the endless noise.
It's a heavy sensation
where even spilling out
upon the page
brings only minute relief -
no real lessening of the dread
that gathers and
does not disperse.
For a moment,
the vision blurs and then clears,
grim with the knowledge
between the dark of night
and the coming dawn,
there is this limbo
where the screaming overwhelms
but remains soundless.
Like the light tracing
of a point
in a mindless pattern
that sends nerve endings
a-skitter,
it's a momentary release
that leaves no trace
of itself.