The silent.

Plead with nothing to gain something, beg for a mercy that shan't be given. Yield, surrender in its wake. No one is at match to it, no one can hear it. It simply comes, ever consuming, ever encompassing our plane of view. Foggy, opaque the air has become, ever so heavy are the eye's sheaths are becoming the struggle harder to keep them hoisted, to be aware.

Incomprehensible, the susurrus is deafening! Mute, yet so very sonorous! Whispers of the unknown, of the what become, the future- the past- all at once. Burden, it is to dwell on either. Hindrance to thought and focus.

• Published January 13, 2020, 16:32
• in Kiddie Pool
• in Vents and or Rants
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