A is for ism

I say nothing.

Saying nothing always turns into something.

Each absent phoneme making a connection,

A social group is formed, excluding me,

But taking on my voice.

I asked if I could stop them,

The reader just shrugged,

Not her problem I suppose

And I couldn’t help envy her dead answer.

Staggering whitely through the frosted park I was taken

How close I felt to the road but somehow distant.

And the road seemed so mismanaged.

“The bare trees peppered with black crows

The sky a fleshy hue,

And all that silence collected in the centre of London.”

 

Still nothing, I carried it to Liverpool Street.

The pain in my back had started to talk, drowning me out.

Who cares anyway, “I do.” it said,

And pushed me against a wall

That I clung to for support.

She said, “You said something,

And I wrote it down,

I can’t remember what it was but

It was something.”

Oh good, I thought,

Another escaped nothing has made a name for himself.