Silence can be heard, I’m told,
But how to quiet the voice within?
Meditate they say! But the voice — ever ready to defend itself,
pours scorn on millennia of wisdom. Hah!
Anechoic chambers remind your voice that there is one louder within;
the steady thrum of blood sucked, squeezed and pushed through atria,
bouncing softly off the waiting drums of inner ears,
Bowel sounds, the slip and gurgle of chyme, microbiota patiently deconstructing hearty meals.
Is there any airless redoubt where silence reigns?
Even space we are told has a smell, ozone, burnt metal, last remnants of stars,
Yet, without molecules to transmit it, sound is not, and yet?
Oh to soar above this dim cacophony!
Not to space but the space between the atoms, vibrating,
Neither wave, nor particle but closer to a cloud
Not waving but drowning
In glorious emptiness.
