murmur

there is an underlying noise.
a strange whispering.
i hear it at times.  when all is quiet.
is it the murmur of the blood?
pumping mechanically through the roots of trees?
or of the swish of the nerves.
the nerves of all humanity.
blowing out the fuse of the brain.
is it the creaking of the heart?
we have stopped using our hearts.
they are worn and rusty in that forgotten closet behind the kitchen.
in that old shed in the woods.
where we used to pretend there were spirits.

i hear these sounds, voices of inanimate objects.
at strange times within the screenplay of my existence.
walking away from a friend, after a fight.
angrily hurt. wishing i had not poured out my innermost emotions with such trust.
shown them my internal pages.
i stab the ground with my strides of sharpened pencils.
and instead of heavy footfall on the linoleum.
i hear the creamy swirl of vibrations.
my ear reacts to these disturbances as sound.
i never really stop to think about them for too long.
i stand, frozen, in the pit of a black charcoal maelstrom.
i look up to the light, hear the songs the light sings to me.

and then i am swept away again.

maybe one time, i can ponder the luz for long enough.
to hear what it is saying to me.

-Pamplemousse