The Epitome

The eloquence of tears is brutal in its own way

Like a mistress of the night,

A lover,

Who promises nothing and delivers as much,

And yet,

When you find yourself at the end,

Of a road long and wearisome,

She welcomes you into her frigid arms,

And she is sparkling with jagged edges

You greet her like record player which has reached its finale,

It spins and clicks and can sing no more,

A tape recorder,

Ticks,

And ticks,

You hold her to fill your empty sound,

In the void about you,

And you are alone together,

Empty,

It feels easier to traverse the land of nod.

Addict to worry,

Anxiety’s spouse and Insomnia’s devotee,

In a fog you carry in your head,

While smiling through the clouds, you squint and stumble,

And your lover has fled into the recesses of recollection,

Tears are a relief when living in the desert,

And sobs are sweet music to those who speak no more,

When all that is left is to stare into yourself,

And think not a single thought at all,

There are no joyful thoughts and no painful thinks,

Just quiet,

Dry

Heavy

And always forever, Quiet.

Perhaps, you consider,

This is the epitome.