The Quietest War

The Quietest War | Ecency

You will only be eager to listen.
When she is too dead to speak..

She once again lay sight on the wall
of faces she has collected from conquered battles.
Yes, they wear many faces.

It all started inside the pale box that she's even skeptical of calling home.
Its four corners made an inept attempt of protecting her
from imperceptible uproar. The powerful screech of fear, confusion,
pain, anger and the contemptuous ridicule was coming from her head.

They were quiet whispers, at first,
carrying out an almost inaudible protest.
It grew louder and louder, sending messages
that allowed her to dwell on the difficult,
the worries and the troubles she once was acquainted with.

The better days are when inching a smile across her face is accomplished
with an admirable ease, while keeping from sight her wailing soul.

Some days are made of clutter, chaos to taste, boiling perplexed sentiments
and a pinch of pandemonium to spice everything up.

The hardest days is getting up and letting go of her blanket, leaving the only thing
she feels can shroud her from the storming turmoil surrounding her.

The oddest days are when breathing her last, she imagined,
will be the best flight, the best breakout from this uninvited confinement.

Days that provoke unwanted circumstances and hysteria which
creates a wildfire of uncertainties that never fails to get the better of her.

The surging theoretical possibilities, the what ifs and buts.
Opinions that are believed to be facts.
The dreadful gaps from people. Apprehensions, anxiety,
resentments that are stealthily becoming an obsession.

The noise never goes away, it never rests.

Whe she has poison in her cup before dawn wakes up,
the war is yet again, declared.