You would be doing me a favor

that I find impossible to gift myself.

Less death since one could say

my soul passed away

a long time ago,

Silently.

 

Like the serenity I long for.

 

No, not non-existence,

just

silence.

 

I scream a cackle into the 

cushions of my sofa

as the irony coats the inside of my mouth.

 

I must have

deserved

the rancid aftertaste.

 

How could I plead for something I cannot stand?

 

Just as I long for company

but recoil at the prospect of

keeping it.

 

I reach deep into the couch pillows,

gripping and pawing aimlessly

as if my hands would eventually

emerge with some 

tangible representation of 

direction.

 

I could regale you

with an elaborate 

and earnest description of 

what I was searching for, but

the picture

I painted would be 

unrecognizable upon every 

recreation.

 

All I know is that I want peace

And variance. Fire

And roots. Silence

And a voice like all-consuming thunder.