Silence
Each passing second
My soul dies
A small death.
Words are replaced
By a flooded soulscape
Meters deep
In tears.
Internalized anger
Builds up
Consuming all.
Until
A black hole
Only remains
Behind.
Therisa © 2016
Author's note: Wrote this micro poem, on the TTC Rte #23 bus, heading towards the Main St subway station, for my Friday afternoon art program.
1 comment:
Sad to feel the soul dying a small death. Hang in there, kiddo.
Post a Comment