One took the stand on the benefit of the doubt. Even that could not put one’s head to rest. To a break desired by every one of us. And how, that even sleep was no less exhausting than catching one’s breath?
Then,
of the silenced, the ignored. They got all but attention. They got all but to be taken seriously. They got all but respect and a pair of ears. There was not a thing anywhere around. Only of those scents of the silenced and the ignored. Haunting. Lurking.
Then,
an emptiness. A sound. An empty sound. Creaking. Only can be heard in a duration as long as a gunfire. It was, perhaps a gunfire in every possible way of meaning. And yet it killed none. No. It inflicted no wound. None from that.
Then,
an evening. A cherished past. A separation. A doubt. A confusion of the unanswered. A colossal anxiety. A chaotic riot. They rose. They slew. No bullets could have done such scale. And yet it killed. Down and down and down, every reason that kept one’s standing. Even the dearest part of one’s reason to walk all the road: The meaning. And down it did – till all but one: The preacher.
Then,
kept breathing – breathing – though breathing was no easier than anything. No less difficult than to do one thing it always did. “It’s over.” Breathing. “It has already been over.” Breathing. “For long, you knew it from head to heart: It was over”. And the rest was just the preacher’s breath to and fro. Filling the silence left by the wind.
Then,
a breeze. A sound. A silence. A recurring wounds. A grasp of emotions. A thought. An unpreparedness. A heavy head and heavy heart. An unclear pursuit. A clouded mind. A fiery anger. A crippling grief. A haunting ghost. An empty belief. A void longing. A lethal truth. A restless. A failed attempt. A sleep beyond the reach. A tired man. Of a sound, a silence, a memory.
Then,
the morning has come.