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Cicada Song
Aug. 15th, 2008 12:27 pmSpring is their symphony. The sound, the singing, fills my head, blocking out all thought. My ears ring, empty, when they briefly break from their nigh-constant resonance. The evening is their time – my head aches with the humming.
This is how it has become: they sing, and, all else driven from my mind, I listen. This simple meditation brings me peace. Now, I find no peace without the humming.
I sit at a desk, a glowing screen before me. Around me, there is only chatter. My ears ring with an echo that breaks all concentration. Someone speaks but words barely reach me. I stare into an empty face, searching for absent humming.
That room is gone now. Summer comes. I sit outside, listening, always. My thoughts drown, and I am consumed with the humming.
A yard, a path, a wood, I follow. The sun blazes, and I follow the song. It grows fainter, days grow darker. My peace is fading and I am left with nothing but ringing noise. I follow deeper, questing for the humming.
The song has closed, the concert ended. The cold time has come. I will sleep here, sleep and banish bland ringing sound from my empty shell. When spring comes, I will be filled with a symphony of humming.
This is how it has become: they sing, and, all else driven from my mind, I listen. This simple meditation brings me peace. Now, I find no peace without the humming.
I sit at a desk, a glowing screen before me. Around me, there is only chatter. My ears ring with an echo that breaks all concentration. Someone speaks but words barely reach me. I stare into an empty face, searching for absent humming.
That room is gone now. Summer comes. I sit outside, listening, always. My thoughts drown, and I am consumed with the humming.
A yard, a path, a wood, I follow. The sun blazes, and I follow the song. It grows fainter, days grow darker. My peace is fading and I am left with nothing but ringing noise. I follow deeper, questing for the humming.
The song has closed, the concert ended. The cold time has come. I will sleep here, sleep and banish bland ringing sound from my empty shell. When spring comes, I will be filled with a symphony of humming.
