Numb to Mischief – 2011

10/10/11

Still.
The faint rattle of a ceiling fan 
Fills the air with impatience.
Moments pass at thrice their length,
This calm is begging for calamity,
Or at least some conversation.
Frozen needles barrage the exterior,
An extended siege fought in body
And proven void of intent.
It’s breath is shallow but
The true terror is in its speech. 

Water the flames with bottled health
So a brighter life will burn the density 
Of these walls to thin memories of youth.
For that is where longing lies, in the
Imprinted imagery of imagination’s
Mischief. 
A diluted clamoring for peace in
The battlegrounds of self-awareness.