Silence

Silence is creeping, seeping into the house, down through the windows. It smothers the flowers, makes horses go grey, keeps little children in to play. It harrows the soul, makes knees go weak, strangles the song and makes us weep. We can hardly stop it, there's nothing to do but hide indoors and wait. The night is a blanket, the silence a spell and none can escape it, or we'll all be dead. Noise has to stop, for something or other, and children's fears must have a place to be real. Though no one expects it, it creeps along, almost invisible. It's awkward or welcome, sleepy or calm. Silence remains when the world is gone. We don't have a choice, but to bid it welcome, open our doors and let the mist come rolling in. A shot and a shout, and silence reins again. And no one can stop it, our voices are stolen, our movements barred, and the blanket covers us like a sheet. Hope and pain are constant companions, but silence is lonely, unattached and free. Silence smothers and strangles, it's fearsome and great, impossible. A spell. Silence reins supreme.

I wrote this yesterday, and  was surprised by it. It was longer then I thought, as well as being somewhat beautiful. Wow. Good Job self.