At times the rush
Of my own blood drowns
My ears. And I can’t stand
The sight of lips open
Then lips closed,
For all I hear
Is the pulse, the gush,
The tireless quake in my
Head. Worse, I can’t
Speak. I can’t
Move. A torrent rages
In my ears, but my body
Shrivels in drought. I’m nothing
But ash and stone. Silent.
Still. And stuck
With the throbbing
Beat
Beat
Beat.
He Who Wanders 