There is an incessant rumble here,
This empty room of crisp wall covering and fading flooring.
Here, the rumble is an echo of fading noises, lost in the passage of two short weeks,
Now that my hoard are free from their education shackles.
I stand between my insipid blue wooden tops, eye catching the shelf of faceless books,
Open on a page of vivid expression: pupil crying for attention.
Explicit imagination, tainted with fragile and sickening reality.
Ears and eyes open to the cry of a lost and tortured soul,
One that commits me to fear for her and where her fear lies.
Frantic retrospect tells me I heard her voice above the hum,
Hoping beyond hope a spoken word or scribbled utterance came to the rescue.
How would this play out under the gaze of another?
Would her silent cry be heard above the rumble?
Do we lose the face behind the name when trying to acclaim and shame?
Am I really that good at what I claim?
All of the above sting my ears as the palpable hum rises again from each tattered page,
Fragile sounds striving to be acknowledged above the rumble of her silent cry.