Squandered Silence

Half alive in the middle of nowhere,

playing solitaire on blank canvas,

drowning in cacophony of noise,

aching to find puzzle piece.

Steam hisses angst in streams -

not human, not part of the world,

measured by money and graft.

Is anyone listening to my quest

for meaning of squandered silence?

Dead empty eyes pretend to be

embodiment of real person, slithering

in decayed world without compass

on a wacky train to vertigo heights.

Reality stretches between my fingers

as villains abound in stars of

ruthless dreams – psychotic anarchy.

I wear perplexity on a chain,

trying to reconstruct my humanity.

I was human once – all that matters

is the tickle of feather dusters

awakening renewal of hope,

ridding bruises and draining blood,

stimulating new growth reaching for sun.

My pith melts and once again, births

my human heart, opening life’s lid

allowing soul to live once more.