It’s an old creek at one of the edges and no one really goes that way.
Scary it is; accused of holding ends,
To all that’s human and theirs.
The house holds cracks, and the leaves hold moth.
As for everything that they’ve ever known,
The silence shatters,
Or like into a mirror,
Off it takes you, to a stranger in you;
An ode to the evils within, and as much to virtue.
For the questions posed, though known for long,
Would rage a storm for a while,
In the eyes, and then just sway along.
For the devil quietened virtue would rise,
With it rises the devil calmed by crowd,
And all they ever thought was right,
In clouds of silence, would drown.
Scary indeed; and old as ever,
That, only silence can call.
Is the one within, crept in the corner.
The gravest within, to explode your world.
And the colossal silence, to engulf you whole.
Here it is that they dance together,
For it’s the monster’s ball.