Its
deafening balance is one to be reckoned,
the quiet inside a sallowed severance,
the act of dismissal,
the purity within timely terror
on life
on reason
on separation
on courage on and on and on and on
we go the circus of our lives.
Its
measure of circumstance
erupts in a vision,
perhaps it is a dream
the waking sun explodes upon
a memory,
washing away the moments
the solitude
the granted harmony
the swift
welcome left now to fester
a lost melody.
Its
cruel hysteric necessitates
a reminder why,
this slow eventuality,
years upon years,
giving days their own causal
sacrifice inside the solemn
nature of
a discord
a grief
a denial
a disbelief
a convincing declarative
demise.
When routine begins its own culture,
the words in mind could discern as tears.
© Thom Amundsen 3/2020