Mute

Listen
To the tick of the second hand
on the clock you last can't remember seeing.

To the wind in the distance,
a distance which you know not the measure of
and you can describe not the sound of.

To the highway traffic,
the tearing wheels, the burning fuel.

To the tapping of fingers,
as you frame this out.

To the walls creating boundaries,
which with closed eyes make their presence felt
by filtering sounds and killing some.

To the voice speaking the above
To the words that are yet to flow

Absorb
The moment.

With all its uniqueness.
With the tale it tells
..and that which it couldn't.

with the guilt of yesterday,
and pulling some from tomorrow
and know that it will run long beyond the moment dies

Release.