I drifted through the wards of white,
The darkest hour of the night.
Bells ring in hopes of finding souls
but their bodies already turned to coals.
Each bed I pass through, draped in sheets
Going through the happiest of streets.
The linen, raw with blood of deepest wine.
To drink the sorrows of front lines.
And I'm suddenly back, a flood
That crowds the pews. The increased thuds
Of languid feet on the floors
As they pray, no more sincere than
Hospital doors.
A young man walks by the church
Pillars standing steady, the urge
To lean against it like a wishbone
Overcomes him, broken to the core.
And now I come back just to see
Those four walls, of brick, mortar
That leave me chained inside.
The kindest prison, torrents of calm.
It doesn't try to interrupt.
It doesn't try to quiet me down.
It only listens, and keeps the
Darkest part of my essence far, for a while.
I can't help but to think, the words,
The whispers walls must have heard.
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"If walls could talk, they probably wouldn't. They'd probably just scream"
- Aron Beauregard
YOU ARE READING
Silence in the Walls
PoetryThis is for those who lost or found their voices. This is for those who could and could not breathe. This is for anyone who is stuck or escaped the dismal abyss of all-consuming emptiness. This is a reminder; a representation of the hardships we co...
