The sound of no feet on the ground                                                                          The sound of paint already dry on the wall                                                           The sound of a long, winding hall                                                                                in a dilapidatedly abandoned building                                                                                          in a sleepy town with no tourist season                                                                            when the moon is shining.

The night sings to me with its light, and the day calls to me with its warmth.

Auditory therapy is not my favorite lullaby all the time

An neither is the sound in my head when I start                                                                                                                       to rhyme.

                                     But it does the trick, because, here I am. Falling Asleep.

Because in an empty airport terminal at 9 a.m, all I hear is everything.              

But all I want to hear is the Light intruded by the blinds                                                                           Dust particles clinging to my lashes                                                                 the edges of my ticket curling in

   the sound of no feet on the ground                          

The sound of paint already dry on the wall.