In the silence of my Pickwickian world, A transcendent quiet stands vigil. Left to its own devices it rattles around, a lonely brown-suited courier, Hefting weighty cargo from one sooty corner to the next.
Seeks tranquility in a world where, Fettered by golden reins Hobbled by unceremonial chain mail Lanced by coronets of thorns, Astride, a long-in-the-tooth steed Spurred on to wrestle shredded windmills, A cavil of unrepentant correctors rest.
And they still come-- Tidal waves of disturbances, Tsunamis that rip ashore and sweep all away Into a loathsome pile, Bilious flotsam of a generation bereft of empathy.
A forced silence clings to the dusty rafters Where sages once stood Hanging like KKK castoffs In a closeted Jim Crow attic of rules and regulations gone mad.
A quiescent quiet demands quiet. Nestles behind muffled screams Of ages of piles of rotting flesh.
Dolorous vision of a peaceful world Where peace packed for a long vacation To Edens that exist only in fairy tales. Bring with them untruths of understanding Swaddled in ******, soiled bedclothes.
Leave me to my silence, Lave me of the Ash Wednesday smudge Where realities come home to roost in the dim corners Where the highwaymen have no access.