The visceral. The palpable. The tenable. Words. All encompassing words. To describe me. My place. My voice. My lone lone voice. One of the many, howling. In despondent unison, in desperation for an ear, imploring that my voice be heard over the cacophony. That the blistering chords of my flesh might resound the ambage of a nonpareil, a salient diacritic among the clamor, worthy to be called a song. Such that the tellurian hosts fall silent to admire the lone harmony. Such that the empyrean emcee endow a moment to the sublime strain. So that my spirit may bask in a solarium for a second. That my breath may apprehend attention. That I may be righteously regarded. That my being may be born again.
Waves of abrasive discord resonate beneath the sauntering fog. The aural aubade lingers in the air. Nothing more than vacuous vaunting.
Truly. We all want to be heard. We all want to be noticed. We live in vainglorious times. Yet we throw ourselves into the throng. We crowd amongst the consonant backdrop of duly vehement masses for warm assurance: no more than a Fata Morgana. No sooner do we lose our voice. Who dares to stand on the high hills and hallow the hymn of their heart? The lofty limn is a lonely limn.
William Dare 