200 Proof Silence

The clock hand is a razor cutting slow across the pane,

another borrowed hour to anesthetize the crushing strain.

The crystal glasses line the window, polished artifacts of dread;

mute sentinels of secrecy, guarding what was better left unsaid.

I listen for the slow decay of the truth I can't evade

and settle for the deep exhaustion in the shadows I have made.

THIS IS THE 200 PROOF SILENCE, A FRAGILE, BRITTLE GRACE,

A TEMPORARY AMNESTY FROM THE ECHOES OF THE ABUSE.

THE WORLD GOES MUTED, STATIC DIES, THE HUM SUBSIDES TO NAUGHT,

BUT THE QUIET HERE IS HEAVIER THAN ANY TRAUMA I FOUGHT.

The reckoning is coming, felt deep within the core of the bone;

the price of every borrowed breath I had to face alone.

I trace the lines of fracture where the promised peace used to sit

and pray the liquid comfort keeps the terror deep within the pit.

The chaos of the mind needs a muzzle, needs a calming hand,

or the whole damned engine runs away and scatters on the land.

THIS IS THE 200 PROOF SILENCE, A FRAGILE, BRITTLE GRACE,

A TEMPORARY AMNESTY FROM THE ECHOES OF THE ABUSE.

THE WORLD GOES MUTED, STATIC DIES, THE HUM SUBSIDES TO NAUGHT,

BUT THE QUIET HERE IS HEAVIER THAN ANY TRAUMA I FOUGHT.