The silence is deafening, each drip a mock,
The tick of the clock, its endless talk,
Alone with my thoughts, spiralling in dread,
Voices of doubt, an impending sense of dread.
Once a calm sea, my mind now turns to the storm,
Ticks become bangs, forming a new norm,
Pulsing, a death march, the beat in my veins,
That persistent drip drop now echoes my pains.
Windows that whisper my name in the dark's embrace,
captive I am, I fear open space,
For beyond lies more, a world that might bark,
A reminder of my chains, of a world stark.
Pounding, relentless noise, will it ever cease?
Dripping, the voices, longing for peace,
The end, I wonder, might relief be sent?
To the world, my anguish, forever I vent.
Psychic disruptions, thoughts lost at a junction,
A glance, a stare, what's its real function?
TV might beckon me with cryptic signs,
But I'll turn it off, in the dark it confines.
Days into weeks, my strength continues to leak,
Pill after pill, the future feels bleak.
2023
This poignant poem, “Splintered Symphony,” delves into the complex emotions of feeling trapped both mentally and physically, capturing the essence of struggle, isolation, and anxiety. It uses auditory imagery—ticks, bangs, drips—to represent the ceaseless cacophony of the mind. It’s an exploration of the battle between inner turmoil and the hope for peace. ❤️
Blakeney-Rose Berry 