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Pt. 3: Silent Wasteland
Walking across the desolate wasteland,
what do I hear?
As I struggle to forge ahead in the land of ash,
nothing can comfort me.
I am helpless.
I only want to hear mirth and laughter again.
To listen ot the sounds of happy children on a warm summer's day,
or to hear the firework display of leaves falling in autumn,
How I long to listen to the songbird's cry,
singing out for a mate,
or maybe the gentle sound of warm surf, washing against a snow-white beach,
but never again shall it be.
I shout to the blackened corpse of a skay for help.
Alas, all I can hear are my own thoughts.
Silence grips me in it's vice, never ceasing,
choking existence from my bones.
But wait! Can it be?
A soft, audible, whisper of a wind,
proof of life?
Or is it my imagination?
I can no longer tell
fiction from reality, memories from the physical world.
I'm not even sure if they are separater anymore.
Oh, the bliss of sound, of noise, of music!
These rapturous feelings!
Loss strikes my withered husk to it's knees,
pleading for something except the screams of agony of my own mind.
I beg for something else
beyond this silent ghost of a life.
I call to the empty world
to end my nightmare.
My appeals are left unheard, unheard!
What twisted irony that I am unheard!
My darkest fear, blackest horror,
is that i will forget;
lose the angelic cacophony of music.
For once that happens, all is lost.
Won't let that occur.
I would rather face the stony countenance fo death,
then suffer the scourge of silence,
the plague of stillness,
the demise of sound and joy in the sanctity of my own mind.
I have nothing left for solace,
except the bed of cold, grey ash
and the blanket of indifferent, melancholy sky.
As I lay down for final sleep,
I say goodnight to this lifeless rock.