The sound of silence
So frequently documented
Resides in my bones.

My restless brain sleeps.
Saved from the wretchedness
Of one million sounds.

And I let myself write.

The din of a stadium
Full of klaxons and canned laughter
Is now but an echo
And it is just Nina and I.

I can stare endlessly out of the window
And not be asked why.
I can sit stubbornly with my mouth taped shut
And not be asked why.
I can sit and strum
Out of time and out of key
And not be asked why.

And I let myself write.

A scattering a books and a half-made bed.
A cooling mug of tea.
I am laid bare afore the eyes of nobody
The fool of the romantics, and the jester of the ghosts.

And I sit here and just sit.
Twitching my lips along the grooves of these words
Stumbling over them in a soundless whisper.

And I let myself write.

This sound of silence,
So fleetingly fair
Will last just moments.

The chimes will soon sound
And one million yawns
Will tremble in the throats of others.

So for now,
I let myself write.