When you feel deafened by the sounds of silence,
when your eyelids won’t open to a pitch black night,
when the room fills with your breath,
but the windows don’t let a single gust through.
Why is the Sun suddenly less bright and yet no less hotter,
why the sky so devoid of flight?
What has happened to the cool of the Moon’s pale,
what to the smell of summer?
Seasons change still, or so they say,
but no signs, no tells can I sense,
there is no thing nor feeling which would compel,
a welcome of this slow but morbid change.
What change is this I hear you ask,
the cynicism of which raises such a stink,
which seems so very unpoetic?
That be for you to experience.
To writhe with and write about,
to drink with or to forget,
to bid adieu to old friends,
to only frequent enemies new.