It came upon a clear 3 am,
Waking all who soundly slept.
The noise rattled within our heads,
Our weeping the only memory kept.
I knew the pain of my neighbor
Whose child had died of leukemia.
She knew the pettiness of my childhood
And why I hated movies in sepia.
The screams of refugees
Echoed through neural hallways
And squealed for attention
From people whose lives were ablaze
The psychic scream shared our minds.
Fear shook us from skin to core,
And sadness stripped happiness.
Who was who anymore?
Fear of disease,
Fear of pain,
Fear of mistakes,
Fear of rain.
Fear of the future,
Fear of the past,
Fear of spiders,
Fear of bones in casts.
Fear of bombs,
Fear of man,
Fear of rejection,
Fear of quicksand.
Was it I who cried
When my father died,
Or was it someone else’s fear with which
This trip had made me collide?
The mushroom cloud of all fears,
Of death that waits oh so patient,
Lingered on the thoughts of every
Person young or ancient.
Not a sound of hope squished out
From all the minds together pounding,
But good things died beneath the weight
Of the baleful cries resounding.
As quick as the blessing came it went,
And in our own minds we were left.
The world fell quiet, all alone,
And somehow we felt bereft.
I sat and thought how I was pathetic,
How my petty fears and worries
Are nothing in the face of the dreams
And the stark reality of others’ miseries.
Now I think about a different fear.
I’m trapped in this helpless carcass
And can’t do anything but consider
Of how I am so small and pointless.
Wow, that reads like a bucket of teenage angst. I’m almost proud of that fact. I didn’t know I could tap into something like that anymore.
Either way, this was written for Raynobradbury’s Psychic Hearing challenge.