An Advent of Sense

I remember nights when my loneliness would not let me remember my own name When ticking clocks turned to rapping on doors melted into the sound of blood in a conch shell When even my blood stopped sounding I could tell from the knots in my back and legs, and feet When even the names of fresh faces I no longer repeat Mattered as much to me as the wine in my stomach Promise no sleep til forgetting.

Small cry in an otherwise quiet room. Quiet from the amount of pollution Hovering on sound waves. Quiet so loud you forget to hear it Just to cope. Consummate consumers Children of the greed breed. Naturalized globe: main course The natural world for leftovers. Food for thought.