The sound that the rain
makes while beating on my roof
lullaby to me

You blink
in the depths of a sparkling forest
full and rich with sweet colour and sound
a vibrance and power dense with life

blink again
and you are all that's left standing
hot and splintered in a blackened silence
the sky pushed away by a mass of death

blink once more
the earth and sky stay dark.

The song never dies
He can silence your laughter, make still your movement
And extinguish the physical
Air may fade until only a beat is left in your conscious mind
Lyrics taken from your lungs
But the song plays
It plays behind shut eyes
Triumphant sound the deaf can hear
Shaken from the depths of your memory by a turbulent bed
The song never dies

Pit-pat, pit-pat
Shoes slapping on the floor.
Pit-pat, pit-pat
A quiet knock at your door.
Pit-pat, pit-pat
Raindrops, water pure.

Timpanic membrane mumbles transform into
Crescendoes, dumb  except   within skull walls.
Not quite like a burn, not quite like a sting this
din deigns to drag out old heartaches and new
failures and fresh ideas and stale aspirations but
stuck in staccato can any one idea stay  or   are
they doomed to rattle, to deafen?  They come
and go and is the thought  even  finished  with
these streams  of   consciousness  up  against
dull  tasks,  wasting  commands  and  ­all  these
commands waste so much energy. When I just
want the world to  stand  still  is  there any
one – yes it is                                 who  weaves
back in and               YOU                 that resonates
in overtones.                                 have made the
mental madness manageable when  you quietly
                          stop the leaking gap.
A plane on which to  balance.  A  grip  with   which
to bolster stronger blisters.
                            A quieting yes to block out
out the trembling timbre.
You are order out of chaos.

In the evening’s repose,
My silent film dreams
honor you, and
in the morning
I wake to noiselessness
and a thunderous heart