There are Things and Cries

There are things and cries.
Voices, a thousand voices, contained in little boxes, in plastic bags, in copper pots,
in vaults beneath the tide.

Run ye over, be ye gone.

Wouldst mask my mask, eclipse my sun with your less brilliant star?

And these whispers,
from every crackling, tearing, unraveling.
Elves are they? Fairies? Evolving, mutating crustaceans?
Listening, mimicking, mocking, surpassing, or degrading?

Crafting stars from paper and lighting them in the sky.
We are more than gods.
For an instant as your face glows in red and orange,
it would appear that you were the source.
Heavenly diabolical.

There are things and cries.
In a thousand plastic cages, this silence is the sound
of our souls escaping.

n