Old Poetry and Prose

Still

There's something about the dark.

The still of the night

the quiet air.

The occasional creak of a floorboard

or muted voices

can't shatter the overwhelming sound

of nothing.

It's a good night.

The demons are hiding

muttering fowl words as they sit

confused that I'm not crumbling for once.

But I am drained.

I am numb.

I am dull.

I am the dripping faucet that leaks through the air,

the sound slipping under my door.

I am the dying fly that beats against the window.

I am the moth that chases the light,

I am the screams that fill the night.

I am everything in this world that is perfect/honest/true/good.

I am order I am chaos

I am the shadows that hide behind your bones.

I am the thoughts in the back of your mind.

I am the whispers that crawl under your imperfect skin.

I am

                                                                                                        nothing/everything.

I am everything you want me to be

and I am nothing at all.