It’s quiet, too quiet. What’s happened to sound?
It is hushed, it was hushed when the flesh hit the ground.
No noise of loud toys, no play-pony’s hoofbeat.
No clatter, no patter of wee little feet.
The hustle, the bustle, the creaks of the chairs,
The stomping, the tromping, of sneakers on stairs,
The singing was ringing and carrying on.
The laughter, the laughter, where has it gone?
It was here, it was here, the sound of it all.
Then it raised, crazed, then started to fall.
It stumbled, it fumbled, then withered away.
And now, oh how it is quiet today.
Echoing, echoing, silence resounds,
Pressing, distressing, the empty abounds.
Oh no, now I know as fear takes its toll.
The knowing is growing, paralyzing the soul.
My spirit, my spirit is silent in steel.
Awake! Awake! I command you to feel!
My heart, my heart must bleed at my will!
I cannot, I cannot, I am silent and still.
Softly, oh softly, the quiet remains.
Nothing left, nothing but crimson-red stains.
This shooting, this looting the last thing we had.
The violence! The silence! The world has gone mad!
6 thoughts on “Hushed”
Heh, thanks. I can’t write a poem without a rhythm. Some can, but it doesn’t seem like poetry to me without it.
It is simply unimaginable, is it not? How does someone ever get to that point? I just don’t understand.
So beautifully expressed, this response to evil and horror.
To click “like” feels inherently wrong …
Odd place to be, isn’t it?