Echo In The Wild

Stretching the silence across calendar-flipping time becomes stone-cold permanent deafness, and the need to reach out of sound's drape becomes forgotten. These pointy fingers languidly touch elements of words to reach outward under an expansive horizon of numb; click-clack cuts air that breathing doesn't even penetrate to make explosions in a cadence of release and retribution and resilence and revenge. Like the steps plodded by the mountaineer, similar to water dripping against granite to form an impessioned groove, so are the tips of my 10-tip extensions defying slowly the hush, the cold calm, the inescapable tetonic encroachment of lifelessness. How emboldened am I to resist, casting feelings like slingshot pebbles against the cycle of light and darkness; do the expressions sting? Are these gestures burning in receipt? I break the grip of quiet, a rippled force exerted bravely again through painted communication of my within. It is all I know to do after all my lessons and journeys and instructions from this life.