A Chaos Of Whispers

If we’re honest
We scrape nothing but
Scabbed over cores
Of raw emotional intensity;

A lack of want.
A yearning for emptiness;
Nothingness;
Stillness.

A murder of crows
That renders the sky
Shallow and useless.

A cover of bloodstains.
A protective exoskeleton of bruises.
A pained smile.
Cracks in a ceiling.
Darkness that stretches eternally
As rays of black sunlight.
The muted voices of millions.
A reversed drowning of self.
The inverted torture of a smile.
The beauty of suffering
When all else is numbness.
When sense of self
Is nothing more than an empty bed.

If we’re honest
Our eyes roll back
Into our heads
As soft dreams replace fear of death.

If we’re honest
The tears of children
Drive us forward.

If we are honest
We know that the silence forms us
Just as much as we form the silence.

Secrecy has a way of destroying us.

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