Dread. a poem

by Sylvia



It settles softly and thickly 

A powdery ashen blanket, 

like snow It is so terribly quiet 

A quiet that hollows out the meaning of 

All the small moments, 

The silence and repose, 

And leaves something empty: 

Moments like dried husks 

With dead sunken eyes. 

Tomorrow becomes a weight 

The past a regret 

The present a dull unending ache. 

What is it? This thing? What is coming? 

The quiet stands unspeaking.