In the pattering of rain, it is thundering.
In the shuffling of feet along empty streets, it is resounding.
In the flickery light of candles along the cathedral floors, it is dancing.
In the shouting of inaudible sea of voices, it is echoing.
In the blurry motion of a restless city, it is carrying.
In the nature of it all, it is there.
It comes and never goes
It is a blanket and shelters to some,
yet to many, a foul stench upon the nostrils only to stay.
For far too many it is the antonym of being,
the disbelief of all that there is in life and breathing.
The death to many things,
yet in fact is what makes all things sound, breathable, and such sings.
It is of the deep void that is nay forgotten.
It is there at the door to the monastery,
at the door to the asylum,
And righteously at the door to the library
of untold and unbound stories where dust bound to the ground
deny any light to shed upon its very canvas,
and where statues grow cold and long into the piercing shadows of passivity rotten.
It is of the things without names nor shape to call upon.
It is a cancerous life preserver in the bone chill air.
It is a narrow and at times broad bridge to the sanity and sanctity of your whole matter.
The bridge that trembles and blankets out to flat clarity and then to rippling uncertainty fond.
It has no bounds as it resounds from our hearts and shatters like unseen glass into our atmosphere
and rains upon us untold character that we take away to grow in secrecy.
And it is there that it both ends