Duty

Poem I wrote years ago, which I discovered in my archives

Under the eerie eaves
In the quiet
Before the morning sun
Before the blue takes you
Below the whistling swallow's wing
A wisp of smoke grays the horizon
Wafting this way, then that in the crisp air

Only suggestion gathers there
Fortified in its mystery
A flattened dread
It has such a predilection for chaos
That wisp

Unexpected screeches meet
A crescendo of violence
A voice of mayhem's duty
But still, I do not hear the run of footsteps
I do not find enough fear
Or love
I'm bound by contemporary socialized anonymity
My cocoon of fascination
Empathy without sympathy
active inactivity