Calming the Whispers

It waits to be formed in a dimly lit room.

Each bead of perspiration that moistens my forehead
is another thought that escapes.
It clings until it is wiped away.

The air is so close; I struggle to breathe.

We're together now, struggling;
the bright light isn't helping.
It illuminates what isn't there.

Then it comes, slowly. It's a stain, a scar.

All is silent for a short time. The light glares.
I am breathing again under its harshness.
I need to.

I need to be here to do it all again.

- SJM -