Muslin

The rustle is now muted
A stringent hum takes its place
This is the sound of tomorrow
Tears appear
Frays reveal themselves
Light bounces
Nothingness whistles through
When the winds of change blow furiously
Muslin becomes its slave
Taut with tension
Stretched beyond limits
And yet it tries to protect its rustle

Anger belongs to giant minds
Fury belongs to revolutions
Chaos belongs to anarchists
Not to the mind
When these and more are misplaced
Devastation occurs
The fragile is destroyed
The delicate, trampled upon
I am not a giant amongst my kind,
Nor a revolutionary
Nor either an anarchist
The mind seeks stillness
Desperate relief from the keening hum
No respite, no respite.

The skies open up
Weak, tattered, the muslin holds on
Rustles cannot be heard in the rain
And it waits... for the summer
It waits for the rustle,
For the song,
For the touch,
For the fall
It waits for its long-gone glory... in vain.