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The Sound Of Silence
Yet I awaken to the neverending sound of silence enveloped in coal plutonium darkness.
I talk to silence just to hear a voice; the everyday experience of this is causing visions to softly creep into my brain like a worm burrowing a hole in the mud.
The seeds of the visions I see in my sleep plant dark thoughts towards my fellow humankind.
In my visions, I walk alone down narrow cobblestone roads with only the halo of the gas-lit street lamps for the company and casting a hazy shadow.
The fog makes it cold, and it feels damp in the air. Suddenly, my eyes are stabbed by the prey I seek.
Some call them woman of the night to me; I have been sent to destroy them; as I approach, I make them think I wish for a bit of company; I allow them to direct me to a dark corner. As they get close, I then produce my scalpel and try to stab them multiple times.
Afterwards, to spread terror among the masses, I slice up the body, talking away various body organs to make it look like a medical person. I just like to know I am spreading fear and dread.
The newspapers spread the news to tens of thousands of people, perhaps more, causing panic among them, leaving people to talk without speaking or hearing without listening.
I go to the local inns to hear songs being sung about the lost women's voices that were never shared because no one dared to speak of them before my actions.
Like the cancer, words of my deeds spread, for I wanted my manifesto heard to disturb the sound of silence in my head.
The day came when I became too confident in my abilities, and I was nearly caught, so I decided to go away to find inner peace, but I never reached it. Instead, I awoke by a river of red crimson blood inside, which were the remains of bones.
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To which god they chose to believe in and this led to signs of warning
A
In the words that it was forming
Then the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the battered walls
In houses and inns around the land
And whispered in the sound of silence
My deeds live in infamy.
© Mark Antony Raines
I talk to silence just to hear a voice; the everyday experience of this is causing visions to softly creep into my brain like a worm burrowing a hole in the mud.
The seeds of the visions I see in my sleep plant dark thoughts towards my fellow humankind.
In my visions, I walk alone down narrow cobblestone roads with only the halo of the gas-lit street lamps for the company and casting a hazy shadow.
The fog makes it cold, and it feels damp in the air. Suddenly, my eyes are stabbed by the prey I seek.
Some call them woman of the night to me; I have been sent to destroy them; as I approach, I make them think I wish for a bit of company; I allow them to direct me to a dark corner. As they get close, I then produce my scalpel and try to stab them multiple times.
Afterwards, to spread terror among the masses, I slice up the body, talking away various body organs to make it look like a medical person. I just like to know I am spreading fear and dread.
The newspapers spread the news to tens of thousands of people, perhaps more, causing panic among them, leaving people to talk without speaking or hearing without listening.
I go to the local inns to hear songs being sung about the lost women's voices that were never shared because no one dared to speak of them before my actions.
Like the cancer, words of my deeds spread, for I wanted my manifesto heard to disturb the sound of silence in my head.
The day came when I became too confident in my abilities, and I was nearly caught, so I decided to go away to find inner peace, but I never reached it. Instead, I awoke by a river of red crimson blood inside, which were the remains of bones.
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To which god they chose to believe in and this led to signs of warning
A
In the words that it was forming
Then the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the battered walls
In houses and inns around the land
And whispered in the sound of silence
My deeds live in infamy.
© Mark Antony Raines
