Still

The clock still ticks

The pain still aches

The thoughts still flow

The dark still waits

Pain

One might imagine flying on a broom, yet as much as it is imagined this will never be a fantasy fulfilled.

All the noise bothers me. Clocks tick. Fridge compressor runs. Air conditioner humming. Sirens. Internal combustion engines. Tire friction. Why fill the silence? If it were utter, would I still long to hear running water?

An end brought on by my intent. Some days I wonder about why it might be wrong and other days I wonder why it doesn’t seem wrong enough.

How old do I have to be before my thoughts are permitted to be my own?

People can never be more than they are. There is an internal governor on the being. Despicable.