I am guessing there’s a constant.
Some sort of repeated beat
that falls in between words
marking the rhythm.
There must be
some sort of coherence,
A string pulling out the photographs
On a stalkers wall.
Some sort of trail.
Some sort of clue.
Something I’m not seeing.
But I also believe I
just got to used to it.
(and I refuse to blame my ears for this)
But I’ve lost my ability to listen to it.
I’ve lost my ability to hear
My own driving beat.
You know, I’ve been called a star before. That I shine bright, maker of my own light, they said.
And I might have burst into a bold supernova and became a black hole.
I absorbed my ability to shine.
Or sound. Or beat. Or rhyme.
I clinged to the idea of
listening to the sound of others
until I found my way again,
but it just won’t do.
What’s the point of lurking out of others drive,
just to remain silent, avoidant.
Where’s the line between not interfere and being a coward?
If you improvise a poem in space,
And there’s no atmosphere
to transport the sound…
Is there a poem at all?
If there’s a poet in the void,
and not a soul or air to breathe,
is there a poet at all?