it is silent in the house, in the wee hours of black morning
no sound affronts my ears but the gentle tap tap tapping
of a few stray rain droplets who have made their escape
falling down

down

down the vault of the heavens
to fulfill their life purpose; like kamikazes
they bravely take the fatal plunge
into the abyss
the sky groans as an airliner cuts through
and I hear a new sound: or am I hearing it at all?
more than audible - it becomes tangible
the steady rising thump from my chest
a wild song of native tribe
pounds on the taut skin inside of me
beating
beating
beat - tap
beating

a cry, no louder than a whisper
is the melancholy melody
an infinitesimal sliver, like a keyhole
of rising Golden light