The sounds of whispers
echo endlessly in the
mind of the ******;

unintelligible words
commingled with
toxic silence,

the mind
hovering over the void,
suspended by a
single breath held in
nervous anxiety,

awaiting the nudge of  
fates hand

-the exhale-

and then,

the slow fall.

Thus is
taken the will from the life;

thus the seedling
tears it's own roots from the
soil - leaving itself to
wilt on the asphalt-

it’s leaves turned down

hiding their faces
from the sun
they once adored;

the sun they now
reject for setting too often.

©Nathan A. Brock