deafening

creaks, clicks, and soft movements

float through the air

inside an old farmhouse

deep in the woods.

a gentle whooshing

of air carries the

echoes of the house’s

life

along their way.

my eyes still shut,

i listen

as  my body stretches

against the covers of the bed,

adding a soft rustling

to the echoes of a still life

wafting in the air.

as i peer overhead

through half-opened eyes,

mind still half asleep,

the white ceiling

stares back at me,

blank,

unmoving,

empty.

i wish to be the ceiling.

floating above all else,

a whisper, an echo, not affected

by anything occurring underneath

it’s protective shield.

it does not think.

it does not remember.

it just is.

as i lie there,

drowsy,

stretching,

blinking my green eyes toward the heavens,

i wish

the silence swirling around me

were not so very

deafening.

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