the silence of the night
creeps in on all sides
and all l may hear
is the crickets
patterned chirp
of conversation
billowing between
my concrete walls

They were built up
to be impenetrable --
So how is this noise
grazing my earlobe
with its incessant
hum?

I can hear them
because the walls
of my house
are structure,
[they keep out light;
They're strong]
while the walls of my mind
are scattered
and confused,
In a maze not even
the North Star could guide
a mouse out of--
and they don't keep out noise

they keep out simplest
rationality and logic
because the walls
might as well be
beer goggles,
blinding me from
an unbiased situation.
Because my perception
tints the picture
with rose
(or blood)
colored glasses
toggling my experience
with notions:
imaginary.

But I know the crickets are real.