The tide that binds hasn’t always had its place. How souls must be lost in a mesh of forsaken words or unable to turn a page? The backlash of another where it didn’t have its place told tales of a thousand words in oblivious attempts to hinder the suffering of their own souls. A thousand words too many came from a forsaken place or unable to turn a page.
Words warrant to another didn’t have its place. Countless times in the ruins of chaos, the mighty tongue of another sliced at the hearts of others unable to turn a page while it battled to find its place.
Chaos at its best becomes words of many; ten folds too many so to speak. Turning a page with the mass of many becomes the ultimate destruction that turns tides into withered storms. The backlash of a storm at its best becomes a category 5; a chaotic rumpus turns nights into days. How do words that carry no merit among tides wither away to a forsaken place?
The backlash of ten folds continues on while the tide binds in a chaotic mesh. Back and forth the words of haste continue barreling down at another. Over and over words began to stumble over one another. Fumble back and forth; stamping on everything in its path.
Rampage carries on, cursing back and forth to any forsaken ear that would quiet ones mind. Mass destruction at its best will cycle any which way it can go. Chaos at its best will continue slamming a book shut and unable to turn a page.
A fierce haste in the eyes of another is damaging at its best. Pacing back and forth, slamming doors till ears burst!! Foul a mood with their vigilante ways, slam a book shut; slam a door any which way it will go. The fury blood of another condemns hatred of another.
How long must rage carry on till the voice of another is truly heard? The sorrows of a poor soul withers away with haste may condemn their own soul. Falling silent behind every door slammed; slamming a book shut or tears a page. Souls that are damned in a fiery rage cannot soothe their own souls. One can slam a thousand doors or burn a book to prevent it from turning a page and still not be heard from the racing mind within.
The mind of a chaotic rumpus is a silent destruction and unable to voice its troubled soul or turn a page. A mind that races with time unable to neither slow itself down, nor can it quiet itself till the soul truly understands itself.
The rage; those cycles may be repetitive at its best, turning a page may have falling still at its best. The rage within while slamming doors cannot be heard. One can slam ten thousand doors and still not be heard. Walk a plank or pace back and forth only to ravage the tide at its best. Throw a thousand loose pages from a book into the tide that binds and still fall silent, unable to be heard.
The chaotic ruins within can only reflect from the view of one’s own eyes. The heart falls silent from emotions stirring up inside.
Copyright © 2014 by Marsha Beede