Soundscape of chaos

 

In the silence

of a crashing

 

d

   a

      y

        d

           r

             e

                a

                  m

 

                       There is still one that sleeps.

 

For his story

was never complete.

History always repeats.

 

His horrors not final,

his creep not fully

etched into

your still warm grave,

where your bones weep

as the demented beasts feast.

 

For in the silence

                              there is a noise.

 

A sound

             that

churns

             the air,

turns

             your stomach

with fear,

              stirs the atoms

that cluster

              at your feet,

yearns for you

              to hear.

 

For when you hear,

you feel,

and when you feel

 

you

 

fall

 

deeper under

his spell

 

The hum

 

was never just a noise.

It wasn’t just a

catastrophic kaleidoscopic

soundscape of chaos,

it was a tearing of hope,

a moment of loss

as you walk in its echoes,

like a fog descending

or a mist that rises.

 

The hum is the god of all liars,

he mimics the day

by painting the night,

and he is

the fear

in the eyes

of children

too young

to speak

of the sights

The 44A has left the station

 

The station empty. Dead.

A graveyard of old stories

left to bleed into the stone,

into the cobwebbed screens

That once buzzed overhead.

Old wives tales

told under a full moon.

Dreams faded all too soon.

Screams of joyful nights

replaced by silent mourning.

 

Departure signs sigh in staccato light,

places never seen, names never read.

The 44a long departed.

Changed course and sauntered away,

but the station still sits,

as it had every other day.

Stained and grey with

each passing hour of decay.

 

Worn pathways where footsteps

used to tread. Now just strains

of dread and silence.

As the ghost stories

start to rise. Past lives.

Playing on repeat, echoing

the hours when life once thrived.

 

Now only dust mites

and lonely nights.

 

Moments when

the rift in the cosmos

gives voice to

those stories long dead.

 

"Shit", she said, as the

shopping bag split,

as the contents of her

world smashed the concrete,

and the carton of spilt

orange juice

saturated the floor.

In silence she wept as

she glowed beetroot red,

as the chuckling kids

yelled

something obscene,

and the man

with the can of stella

tripped over his feet.

 

Incoming umbrella dripping

with long forgotten rain,

running for a bus

that will never arrive.

damp footprints

on the worn night.

The sound of engines

dying in the mid-summer heat,

as another pair of eyes

sees love take their ride

on a different bus, to another sky.

The pain inside never dies.

 

The seasons still turn.

Winter follows autumn.

Summer follows spring,

the clothing cycles

through ages

as those

passing time

on bicycles

get told to

dismount.

The wailing tomb

 

Here I sit

alone in this waiting room,

tomb. The clock ticks doom.

I hear the agonised screams

of another that has stared

into the void.

Madness creeps

on the edges of their cries,

for those that look deeply

into the deadlights

only see the ends of everything untie,

and the great unravelling begin.

 

I sit,

fingers drumming,

running, pounding.

 

Thudding.

 

Like the empty hole in my chest.

 

I close my eyes

and I see the emptiness

so vast

and I try to grasp

my place in it.

 

The scream pierces the air 

like nails in a coffin scraping

the lid until fingers are torn.

Chalkboard memories scraped

all around. The sound. Hurts.

 

The man that stared

into the void,

must now be clawing at his eyes,

for the things seen

in the dark night

of eternal pain

are not to be seen

by the feeble human brain.

 

I sit.

 

Feet shaking.

Knuckles white, gripping tight

to a last stand of sanity

and I realise I’m screaming.

The voice I heard

all along was my own,

and those things I was shown

were so very true.