Melted into my cushion below.
Wood before me, ceramic circles.

Cold vibrations buzz in the air,
Carrying tales.
The same... but different.
Repeatedly blasting my eardrums,
Gripping my mind in a chokehold.
Pounding in messages all the same.
Dreadfully, droning. On and on.

Where is it coming from?
The icy daggers that pierce me deeply,
Killing my hope?

In front, on cushions of their own.
Countless figures lined up with circles.
Shadows, smiling and laughing. Repeatedly.

Same stories. Same atttibutes.
Distinct figures externally.
Each internal voice... the same.

My ears lift like feathers.
Flying in hopes of warmth.
Only to meet the same,
Inconsiderate.
Icy.
Instruments under each figures nose.
Eating their flesh on ceramic circles.

As my wings fold, I sing my song.
Warm but filled with color.
Scented with lavender.
Tasting of pepper.
Rainbow vibrations warm the table.

The figures become clearer.
My friends, family, strangers all near.
Talk of themselves everyday all year.
My words distinct. Reach every ear.

Strange questions and tales; none true.
Alone at the table but surrounded I sit.
Wishing to hear my words returned.
My wings stay chained, my heart cold.
How many jokes have I told?
How many smiles have I seen?
How long has it been?

Speak for them. To drown them out.
Leaving smiles on every mouth.
Have no friends and get no help.
Speak to them, talk to myself.