Beyond Terra
12,449 poems read
Quiet Suffers
when you live a life of repercussion, you are the pit to the pendulum. There is only one victor in the end… Highlander Style
Screams emanate from silent mouths as tornadoes are heard in the distance…
resonates a perceived danger far off enough into the stretch of space to hold "one's keep" yet near enough to listen attentively with strained ears_
As for yourself being in fellowship, the outside observer to these transpiring signals, you continue onward with your day. However, you are waiting for a sign… warning... the air of alarm as firemen "stay the ready" for smells of burning smoke. A sense of caution or alert tingles the nape of your neck. A feeling so strong and the potency of it impending you that it warrants identification. It is sure to have a name; as does someone watching you, secretly, in silhouette. A feeling that causes you to look around out the window or to peek down the hallway. You want to know who or what it is. It's there…yes… it's there... (you think to yourself " just as I am here").
Your keen awareness takes note that some things' wrong _ somewhere close… to the point of intense urgency to ask everyone close enough to be asked… is everything alright? Or how are you today? Do you have something on your mind? If you ever need to talk I am here as a friend. A barrage of questions and endless courtesies and inquiries of the sort changes you into an avoidable burden.
Bearing witness to the callousness of hurt, pain, torment, and despair; for you are familiar to the tones pumped through hushed veins that connect you to the sufferer, you pretend with matched painted happiness ("fools be not beguiled").
You can hear the dust in words spoken, that darn near cause you to sneeze. How the voice raises uncontrolled much too loudly for the time or place. The quick answers… much too quickly if the person is on edge; very jumpy, the known trait of always being in anticipation mode (guarded defense). How the voice drops the tempos at the end of speech.. sometimes trailing off to become slurred murmurs as if the person suddenly lost interest altogether and the sheer exhaustion of talking wanes the effort.
As time progresses you begin to search the faces of those around you. Amidst the sea of smiling faces, you seek out the painted lips that darn a tint of gray to shadow the rigid lines carved from frowns. I say painted because sadness has to put on a happy face and all sad faces bare auto-facial smiles as painted dolls or marionettes, are permanently adorned. These aren't smiles really, they are more like taunt grins. Stiff lips and teeth stretched across placid faces, nervously at times, a quick twitch at other times. Watching them from a distance they resemble photos that have been attached to bobbing heads, like political candidates on the campaign after weeks of grueling trips and events.
At times they look more like grimaces as if someone baring down on wood to redirect pain. (brave the battle_ for life is war) In either case, they are not in the immediate moment. They are at ground zero of Sane Insanity called “Quiet Suffers”. Contrary to the name the place is full of the hollers, screams, bellows, moans, groans, and newly invented profanity ever imagined. A desolate place that pulls and tugs at all occupants against will, against nature and personality. The surreal loneliness of it all battles the confidence strains the senses and challenges character. They are seen, heard, or felt, but are sightless, muffled, and numb all the same.
For the sufferer, it's a wavering of dual worlds between real and unreal, of conscious purgatory, of being an unwilful sacrifice ("Suffering be not quiet in still of life but strange energy moving in stealth").
Screams emanate from silent mouths as tornadoes are heard in the distance…
resonates a perceived danger far off enough into the stretch of space to hold "one's keep" yet near enough to listen attentively with strained ears_
As for yourself being in fellowship, the outside observer to these transpiring signals, you continue onward with your day. However, you are waiting for a sign… warning... the air of alarm as firemen "stay the ready" for smells of burning smoke. A sense of caution or alert tingles the nape of your neck. A feeling so strong and the potency of it impending you that it warrants identification. It is sure to have a name; as does someone watching you, secretly, in silhouette. A feeling that causes you to look around out the window or to peek down the hallway. You want to know who or what it is. It's there…yes… it's there... (you think to yourself " just as I am here").
Your keen awareness takes note that some things' wrong _ somewhere close… to the point of intense urgency to ask everyone close enough to be asked… is everything alright? Or how are you today? Do you have something on your mind? If you ever need to talk I am here as a friend. A barrage of questions and endless courtesies and inquiries of the sort changes you into an avoidable burden.
Bearing witness to the callousness of hurt, pain, torment, and despair; for you are familiar to the tones pumped through hushed veins that connect you to the sufferer, you pretend with matched painted happiness ("fools be not beguiled").
You can hear the dust in words spoken, that darn near cause you to sneeze. How the voice raises uncontrolled much too loudly for the time or place. The quick answers… much too quickly if the person is on edge; very jumpy, the known trait of always being in anticipation mode (guarded defense). How the voice drops the tempos at the end of speech.. sometimes trailing off to become slurred murmurs as if the person suddenly lost interest altogether and the sheer exhaustion of talking wanes the effort.
As time progresses you begin to search the faces of those around you. Amidst the sea of smiling faces, you seek out the painted lips that darn a tint of gray to shadow the rigid lines carved from frowns. I say painted because sadness has to put on a happy face and all sad faces bare auto-facial smiles as painted dolls or marionettes, are permanently adorned. These aren't smiles really, they are more like taunt grins. Stiff lips and teeth stretched across placid faces, nervously at times, a quick twitch at other times. Watching them from a distance they resemble photos that have been attached to bobbing heads, like political candidates on the campaign after weeks of grueling trips and events.
At times they look more like grimaces as if someone baring down on wood to redirect pain. (brave the battle_ for life is war) In either case, they are not in the immediate moment. They are at ground zero of Sane Insanity called “Quiet Suffers”. Contrary to the name the place is full of the hollers, screams, bellows, moans, groans, and newly invented profanity ever imagined. A desolate place that pulls and tugs at all occupants against will, against nature and personality. The surreal loneliness of it all battles the confidence strains the senses and challenges character. They are seen, heard, or felt, but are sightless, muffled, and numb all the same.
For the sufferer, it's a wavering of dual worlds between real and unreal, of conscious purgatory, of being an unwilful sacrifice ("Suffering be not quiet in still of life but strange energy moving in stealth").
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Quiet Suffers
Quiet Suffers