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
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