The Muse

In silence, we walk,

wearing decadent rags of our past,

walking on eggshells

over the fragile glass of our world.

The path of least resistance,

where every breath feels numb,

the will to fight, to feel, —thin air,

every word, no—every thought,

complete annihilation.

It grows louder, the deafening silence,

straddling, moving amidst us,

still clutching a sliver of hope

that dares call itself hope.

And still, it finds itself a muse—

a milieu of thoughts.

Perhaps, to delay the inevitable.

But maybe we are already there,

and all this is just a ruse.

As we walk—

in silence.

A Grain of Sand