The Loudest of All

The quiet.

Softened thoughts pillow smothered before made sound,

the feathers catching still at the back of my throat


bent out of shape

bone splintered and lost from their use.

That catch of breath left caught,

held by fabric’d silencer



muted into submission,

or perhaps just bedded for now.


It’s the unbreathable,

the suffocation of controlled thought

which leans me,

unprompted unpropped,

an internal passing out

and continual semi-consciousness,

like I gauzed, paused,

self-induced silent to prevent full collapse.


My heart is bed ridden.


Tied down

weighted while that feather coughs itself,

now and then, into staggered breath

and stunted speech.


Such a light thing,

a deceptively floated way of being

that staggered me like whiplash

and has the power

the strength

to floor me should it will itself to.

External submission, internal asphyxiation.

The quiet.


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