A crowded echo,
one last note in the sea of song.
Decades spent
knowing every angle
and soft spot,
or peculiarity,
that begs to be heard.
Yet as undistinguishable
as the fogged mirror
from this morning's shower.
To sit
would be best.
But the fear of the known,
dwarfs
the vacuum that holds it all together.
This doesn't define me.
Nothing does.
Not this, not that, not any one word,
or nightmare, or moment, or phrase, or memory,
or essay, or lyrical masterpiece.
Just the lull of rumbling silence
screaming
to be seen.
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