(Looking for a title)
it is dreadful and immediate
and sometimes all there is
not a whisper but thunder
seems to rise from its clout
shakes the gigantic throat
but prisoned by atmosphere
rebounding from aggregate
echoing to fall from place
to a pretended emptiness
safety of a shell becomes
the earth’s uncertain ear
a canal opening to the roar
or drowning into the idea
a singular idea ridden on
the shock of a summation
brittle within its ending
the echo that quietly goes
shaping patience in its wake
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