Serenity.
Peace.
Silence.
That is what the nighttime supplies.
Endless cycles of silence.
Nothing that will stop the world from being heard.
If; we only just listen.
She sat there.
In the tranquility of it all.
The silence hit her.
Actual silence of sound.
Noises – cacophony – absent – from the boring world.
Silence isn't measured by the pure absence of sound.
It is the absence of the things that makes us busy. That distract us – stops us from being useful. That was what she thought while listening to a piece of macabre melody from Tchaikovsky. She sat there; knowing herself just a little bit more. Listening to the silence of being worried has affirmed her feelings.
She sat there,
Quiet.
With her eyes closed, she laid on her back; looking at the stars that decided to sleep with her through the night.
But she was not falling asleep, following her dreams.
She was merely waking up – To her own reality.
and with that, she closed her eyes for the last time.
YOU ARE READING
Danse Macabre
PoesíaCollection of poem that delves with life and death. Questions of it, and people that are haunted by them. - Image cover by Natalia Drepina
