in the cluttered silent spaces of the cool shadows lie
her weak-veined fingers tap on clatter keys
the music must stop for wordless texts to flow
in the voiceless void the white noises cease.

and the dust accumulates through the complaint-ive din
and she muses, invisible fingers sifting through imaginary dust
the shattered fragmentary facets of what used to be familiar
how the hues of perfect glass could have been tainted so deeply by sin
previous peace turned to shrill shrieks
escape, escape! the world here is too shrunk for privacy.

right then, right now, inspiration fails to strike
she is asked to critique, to criticise but feels lacking, inadequate.
why won't the words come when she beckons? the thunder rolls on oblivious
of her painful indecision
the surge of dewy smells, the patter of acid rain
all falling on black holes, these powerful imaginary weapons
of self-destruction.