S is for something known.

And all of a sudden relief
release

together

outside, the sound of sirens and sleep
inside, wounds have failed to cauterize, reopened.

Worthless chords, tuned to a noose.
A room full of noise, is your head, is your tomb,
is a surrogate interest to harvest the wound.

And the relief fades slowly

And nothing remains

outside, the wind heaves its chest
inside, shell pieces went missing, reopened.

Noise outside never sleeps, drowning in itself,
calling for us to leave the tuning pegs behind,

you can't hear the sound.whytryandfaildenylostandaloneandnoreasontosurvive.
But with your fingers, they breathe
Surfacing slowly
Shivers upon the neck

Stop listening.

Feel.