Noiseless Inner Thunder  


Hearing the footsteps of one’s genealogical shadows,
the pounding of bare feet, sandal and boot,
the rise of malevolent dust and vacuous screams,
such is not ancient history preserved for present day,
but the noiseless thunder of sleep’s nocturnal magic
some of us try to endure and comprehend,
aware that what we visualize is made up of
images needing somewhere to be placed,
respected,
honored,
even though at times,
they are consciously hated.

Commercial identity calls it: skeletons in the closet.

But some of us say it is foresight,
a desperation to deal with realities unresolved,
to be with what might be,
with what at times we wish had never been.

Honesty, most readily heard in the quiet of aloneness,
is that clamorous hidden place
where one’s mind,
one’s heart,
that conundrum of sentience,
desperately searches for one’s secret attic hideaway.

Some know where it is,
this unresolved awareness of time,
this clock that is always running down,
never advancing as in some sci-fi make-believe.

Some of us even know it’s just where it needs to be...

Our own noiseless thunder in the heart and mind,

making us move beyond self-doubt,
hopefully reaching that beyond

where growth awaits.