The clock
is a relentless nagging sound
in the still room.
Through the blinds,
the night is void of feeling.
Only the small lamp
keeps the cold darkness
at bay.
My pen lowers to the paper,
but I can’t make it move.
Silence.
A car splashes through a puddle.
A train in the distance blows its horn twice,
the low moaning carried across the silent city.
If I am quiet,
it seems as though I’m the only person in the world,
the only disturbance to the perfect calm.
If I am quiet,
I can imagine.
If I am quiet,
the words
will come.
