Turning to the night breeze as my only confessor
I told it the reason why I feel under pressure.
Each whispered word is gone with no trace,
leaving a densely thick silence in its place.
Sometimes the silence is cruelly stark—
colorless, blending into the dark;
At other times it is incredibly loud—
a deafening silence, no earplugs allowed,
clinging all over my skin like a leech,
sucking all the blood within its reach.
The silence that torments, the silence that hurts,
but it’s also loyal—it rarely deserts;
it stays with me when my eyes are closed,
it remains even when no threat is posed
to the inner peace, to a quiet contentment,
neither of which are frequently present.
It isn’t enough to confess to the breeze—
sometimes an inquisitor, sometimes a tease.
In the meantime, I shall turn to writing
to allow the words to take on fighting
the encroaching demons of doubt and worry—
both firm participants in my current story.
Copyright: Nara Hodge
(Previously published by Harness Magazine)