The Keeper

The Keeper

12-2010

Cynthia Lott Vogel

Yours are the only ears who will hear

The only tongue to recount

Of that which my brain

Struggles to make sense…

And miserably fails.

I would not be able to give voice

To my sentience

That with full volume sound

Crashing in my ears…

Nothing penetrates the

Intrusion of thought.

Not thoughts which I command;

Thoughts that command me.

Pictures which are not.

Voices which speak not

But are too loud to bear.

Plots that grab and carry me to places
Both absurd and terrifying.

Meaning has fled.

And everything propounds

Too much significance

To possibly decipher.

I cannot hear the music.

The music has fled

At the din of my thought.

There is no distraction great enough--

Save maybe one--

But o God, I know where

That road ends.

Thoughts, desperate grasping

Thoughts

Of escape.

Enough to swallow

Enough to sleep?

Enough to cease?

No more inspiration

Only expiration.

Sorry, this deadline has expired.

There will be a fine.

The deadline

Is a fine line.

One difficult to find

When you are looking for it.

Is there no one to call?

No hand to save.

No voice that I could hear

Above this furor?