Sound has turned into a source of white noise that plays into my life like a buffer, something to make my conscious full
I am taken with the image in front of me, like I've seen it before, but something is different, my mind reaches for it but falls short
There is a chance, but only for the clever boys the ones with patience and truth and power in their actions, the white noise begins again
Filling the gaps the little parts where I can hear something and my conscience is breathing again, in the space left free
Grace is an ideal I have all but forgotten, placed on a side table, cast to the floor, largely forgotten, its now placed safely and neatly in a chest of drawers
Left there until accidentally discovered at a time not panned, at a time of extroversion that is then converted to filler, gaps again appear
They've seen it, I've seen it, my face tells of the battle I have fought and with all war it is futile, something given to young men for the old to exploit
The thoughts with which I am left, even if i gave them to my enemy I would not be proud, mutually assured distraction
The images seen and not able to shake, if I try and hold onto something I might be left with a sinking ship, one that cannot be righted
Then I am the musicians on the Titanic, going down in one last ending song of grace, of self sacrifice, the symbol and the anthem of my melancholy.
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