Quiet.
A multitude of voices
Echoing between walls too familiar
Loud, all around, engulfing.
Quiet.
And suffocating.
Like the smell of concrete walls
The forest of which you were a part
And coffins not fortunate enough to smell
Or turn from dust to dust in real soul at least.
Quiet.
And close.
Like the proximity presented by the brick walls
That had replaced the lace curtains
Someone had stitched and embroidered in white crochet.
Presenting no better intimacy
Thank the sick mortal lust.
Quiet.
I must hush
The tone is similar to the hissing snakes.
Ah! Awful, vile comparison!
The snakes have their wild to own and rule
You are but dying here
Breathing air and suffocating
Stale.
From nails painted red, to fingers
And all Beauty mortal contained
Now pale and deserted.
And wrecked in the death-like bondage.
Wait! Death is freedom
This place is no water, no air, not company to relief.
It is the contrary.
It is quiet.