One’s Noiseless Thunder


Hearing the footsteps of one’s genealogy,
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 nocturnal magic
some of us try to endure,
aware that what we visualize

are just images needing somewhere to be placed,
respected,
honored,
even though at times,
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.

Even though…

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 that 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...

a noiseless thunder making us move…

Maybe even grow.