Four Count Rest.

There are sirens constantly blaring,
Near this place I learned to call home;

The night air is chilly, like it reeks–
Old winter-breath, touched with decaying frost-bite.

The fridge trudges on: 

Foot-steps mechanical-sounding in the artificial silence I’ve created with the remote;

A lone dog howls,
Motor-cycles roar by,

But in all this symphonic malarkey,
My phone is awkwardly mum–

No fancy two-beat.
Merely the hanging coffin,
Of the long four count rest.

Sunday, May 3, 2015. 23:32 hrs.

Old Rhythm Returns?

Today, I started writing, and I noticed the Old Rhythm* had come back,
And where once I had expected great joy to escape
On seeing that my words no longer resembled sharp blades,
or blunt clubs,
All I felt was disappointment,
Because I knew what it really meant,
And I know what it means.

It means the walls have come tumbling down,
And the gilded bars from the old cage** I once spoke of,
Have been turned into pretty curlicues
On a beautifully decorated house;
And then I noticed that this house, housed
No façades, and a Human*** really did reside within it.

Still, it all made me frown,
For every beauty is fleeting,
And new structures eventually venture
To Dilapidation****;
So, until then new Old Rhythm,
I’ll watch you carefully,
With my upside-down frown.

Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron
Friday, April 24, 2015. 13.25 hours.

* Rhythm
** Liberation