MSM

There is a blanket of ratcheting noise

Woven, nursed, nourished, fluffed

We move like shadows through its dust

A layer is lifted and falls again

Retwisted, enriched, escalating

Warped to shift a tighter design

But stained and torn where fingers clutch

Red with life, tide by tide

The blanket frays, grows, recedes

Yet clings through all our tossing.

In the city the streets uncurl

Each day in the rhythm that is beaten in

This drum beat either dies in time

Or rises to a vicious din

Hectoring embrace, dull thump:

The machine slouches towards quickening

And in our eyes the dust of beaten rugs

The hammering we seek, to kill silence

Because we don't know where we are

Or what furious thing is happening

We only know the fury

And that some unknown thing is happening

And we can't speak

Gongs of fear and clouds of sound

Compose the space and wrap us round

And turning now at each new clash

We let the voiceless terror wash

Across the numbness that is left

Where our vacated faces drift

Empty of thought now, at last

And limp with rage

We watch the hammers pound the page

And twitch as each signal clicks past