Like my clock?

Digital tic of Time pass in silence.

Sound surfaces on creative whim

or clatters in descendent insanity.

Unspeaking electrons ever buzz into unlit obscurity

infusing numbered lights that count last to eternity,

but first to shrill bleats

waking to morning coffee,

prayer,

or nothing.

This world expanse wrapped in stucco walls

it weighs and waits

rages to calm and back to rage

placates that blind guide

bares the fruit of the barren.

Until the dawn unlike another.

New comes to creep.

A scarcity of grey brews crimson red or amber brown,

at-first-unfavored-light,

you crest a rounded line

and rounded self,

blind the already bemused.

Smell like tincture wraiths cloy a curry tint,

wrap and warp my milquetoast memory and

backward fade to vibrant Dream.

Taste buds - hills on mouthy Mars -

rouse and breathe blue.

Seen silk will find scratch of common cloth,

like augury, atmospheric gender set opposite a thickset thumb.

Look up,

ubiquitous ceilinged cellophane,

Poke and Prod,

Sound will surely surface.