Silence.
Devoid of sound beyond the flow of air currents, even that may not be guaranteed.
In a space where one would wish they weren't, wide or narrow, any place it can precede.
Creeping into crevices and swallowing open pastures whole, creating a void of stillness, a grave of dead symphony.
A state when nothingness meets its final goal, prevailing over all in its grasp with calm infamy.
Heavy in its presence, like fog rolling over an open plane.
Carrying with it the hum of its essence, that any and all become vain.
Melancholy.
When you stand at the center, within its shroud of nothingness.
Where the void of sorrow met her, a lonely soul lost to a frayed consciousness.
Waiting not for hope, or any powers that be, existing not to cope, but to live by shadows so free.
(A poem I wrote and originally posted on my Substack <Esperance Mwambi>)