It is always deafening—
The silence. 
Which it courses through the night like a thunderstorm,
Blasting—,
Once it is here, it'd put the birds' chirps to dead,
No more songs from the crickets,
And it kills the sound of my heart beat— 
Lulling it to sleep. 

 

It is the woe,
The foe,
For not even once it eases this pain that pounds under my ribcage,
That claws the skin under my chest.
That burns the cells living in my veins. 

 

It is venomous,
Dangerous. 
For it has been the cause to my dead soul,
Leaving the mixed of emotions to foul,
And it is the ground whence all the loneliness grow. 
— Jane l.