There is a noise within the brow
That pulses undiminished now
In accents measured by the blood.
It breaks upon my solitude—
A hammer on the crystal walls
Of sense at rapid intervals.
It is the unmelodic ring
Before the breaking of a string,
The wheels of circumstance that grind
So terribly within the mind,
The spirit crying in a cage
To build a complement to rage,
Confusion’s core set deep within
A furious, dissembling din.
If I should ever seek relief
From that monotony of grief,
The tight nerves leading to the throat
Would not release one riven note:
What shakes my skull to disrepair
Shall never touch another ear.
= Heather C. Liston