Lullabies are sung to me by the murmur
of autumn leaves in the trees
but my ears and heart are closed to them.
The night, twitching like a shadow,
is broken-winged with spindly legs
that crawl across my visual plane.
The birds used to be there, I heard them.
Now they are not, and all the time
spent writing poems, I am looking
for the end of a the tunnel.
Picture frames rattle as trains pass by.
Those travelers, so tired, I imagine,
look out of their windows at the blur
towards or away from home,
not knowing that they are heard,
hoping that someone, wherever they go,
is there waiting for them.
Once, there were words.
Now, there are none.
I meant it when I wrote 'lonely'.
And when I said 'some days'
I meant that it feels like
the whole world wants
my silence; my absence.
