More Ryhme des mots

Silence

I asked my baby brother what he thought of the sound that silence makes.

He told me that he couldn't hear it over the crickets outside of my open window. The April breeze blowing back and forth through the pine trees.
He told me that sometimes, he stopped breathing so that he can hear his heart beat.

Feel it through his chest without even laying a hand to check.

He's never had to think about the sound of silence. Said he'd never caught sight of it. The soft colors that turn static and harsh as the crinkling air gets restless.

But he stops on the play ground, breathless, to hear his heart beat.

Not even half as old as most teens, he has more respect for life than anybody.

Children don't notice the vibe depressed people give off; they stand beside them, hold their hand, watch
the dancing wallpaper that the schizophrenic fought.

Children go up to old people and say;
"Hey, sir, I like your cane. You can use it as a pistol. You could use it as a staff. It's like your Gandalf!"
And then everybody's had a good laugh.

They don't whisper behind the backs of their friends. They run up to them and punch them in the face!
Everything is a race.
But the winner just goes back around to try and beat the next kid.
There's no trophy, only chicken nuggets.
There're no taxes, only spaces under beds that bid.
There aren't illnesses that can't be solved with a hug and a kiss.
Children live in heartbeat rending bliss.

But it's not like they can't see sadness.