Hollow

I am hollow inside.
I see the sun, but it does not warm me.
I see the stars, but they do not inspire me.
How I see the outside.

I hear the bell ring and it sounds miles away.
I hear a child’s cry and it is too far away.
I listen to the echoes fade to stillness.
Listen and hear the emptiness.

Feel the fraying stretch of an African plain.
See the far-reaching edge of savana grass.
Hear the savage shaying through the grass.
A sensory overload so plain.

So blinding, deafening, painful
All being is shattering, splintering
and in the end arcing in crystalline minuteness.
No more emptiness for echoes.

Copyright ©2006 Ann Marie Meadows

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