Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Quiet



Quiet

Where is my gentle “quiet”
I hear only clamour
My ears are filled with anguish
My mind grows weary with worry
Has all the world gone mad
Tell me it is not so
For I cannot see past the anger
I cannot feel past the sorrow
I cannot smell past the rotting flesh
I feel as a stranger in a foreign land
Searching only for sanctuary, or
Perhaps the company of a wise old monk, or
Perhaps rest in a skeleton-filled cave, or
Praying forgotten prayers in an abandoned chapel
In one I hope to find my quiet
For it left leaving no footprints
Nor any parting words
It is now only a quaint memory
A relic of my past
Perhaps sacrificed
But we shall meet again.

Thank you,
Joseph Pede

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