I can sense something awaits…

My attention, my love

But all the plaintive voices I hear

Seem theatrical and screechy

Scripted and programmed

With no trace of truth.

 

This thing that awaits

Is silent in its sorrow

I strain the ear of my ear

For the sound of a sigh, a pulse…anything

But such is the din in my mind

That my ear cannot hear my own heartbeat.

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