Rain pelts the window pane;
the wind, chilled and crept,
tests its pressure points.
Beneath a softly lit tree,
on milk tan carpet,
I find no words to
connect a meaning
to the reader.
I find no soul.
The soul has gone away.
The poetry has gone away.
The resounding voice echoing
in this hallway has gone mad
It fights to find its way back
into the light.
It pummels the voice
The grinning cat that smiles
from generation to generation
at long last has cast a frown upon.
“The joke is over.” Is what he says.
“There is nothing funny here anymore.”
The cat has gone away,
taking its grin and sly magic along,
taking its riddles and lullabies.
The temperatures have fallen outside
even as they escalate inside.
The heat has been raised.
The children have awakened.
The mothers have begun to wipe away the sleep.
The fathers have begun to stretch out the restfulness.
The bar has been dropped, but
the sons and daughters picked it up,
remembering that instinctual fear
like a banging on the floor beneath,
like a stain of ash on milk tan carpet.
The children remember the void and
darkness, they remember the
consequence of their silence.
It is the children who remembered,
when cat, and magic, and sleep were gone,
how to connect the words and meaning.
They who took this opportunity to heart.
It is the children who remembered how
to find the soul; they remembered
how to find the poetry.
Instinctual Fear, written by Michael Aaron Casares.
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