Somehow to find a still spot in the noise
Was the frayed inner want, the winding, the frayed hope
Whose tatters he kept hunting through the din.
A velvet peace somewhere.
A room of wily hush somewhere within.
So tipping down the scrambled halls he set
Vague hands on throbbing knobs. There were behind
Only spiraling, high human voices,
The scream of nervous affairs,
Grand griefs. And choices.
He feared most of all the choices, that cried to be taken.
There were no bourns.
There were no quiet rooms.
Poems: The Explorer
Last Edited: 22 Jul 2000|
©1999 by Z. Tomaszewski.