Intervals. Poem, by The Skeptic, at My poetic side

Everything enters me uninvited.

Light through the curtains,

Voices through the walls,

the small machinery of other people’s lives.

There is no silence, only intervals

Between one intrusion and the next.

I stand inside myself

Like a room with all it’s doors removed.

II.

I am my mind,

I am my lungs,

I am my Eyes,

Perceiving the world as the never-ending

absurd cycle of pain that builds us.

III.

I remember things I haven’t lived,

miss places I have never been to,

feel joy with the aftertaste of grief.

For one impossible second,

I mistake excess for infinity,

look to be the person I will never be.

IV.

And then – Nothing.

Not peace.

Peace is too gentle a word.

It is the moment the universe has

exhausted its vocabulary for pain.

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Intervals.