The Ring

There’s a game that I play,

Where I make up the source,

Of the frequency weighing

on my life force.

I pretend...

it’s the static of every

alien race,

sending out signals,

through vast open space.

And the fizzle of stars

as they pass without grief,

Their long-whispered echoless

sighs of relief.

And the whistling whir

of our movement through time,

The Doppler effect

of an infinite line,

Shifting through wormholes

and bending toward mass,

Sorting our lives

into present and past.

It’s the sound of life—our billions

breathing and limitless,

It’s hearing itself—

the sense so fortuitous.

Hearing saved us from lions, 

now we sing and we spin in this

sweet sonic groove, 

that empowers and limits us.

It’s a galactic ring,

a trillion-ring circus,

a ring of fire 

That dazzles and tortures us,

It’s the silent sound,

when freedom rings,

When the ringing goes quiet,

The silence is deafening,

It’s the ring that awakens—and,

the one that inhibits us,

The “til death do us part” ring,

We just have to live with this.

So I’m here in the soundscape, 

Trying to win at this,

Game I made up, 

to make peace with the tinnitus.