“It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.”
― Don DeLillo, White Noise
Always company to the old scenes,
a noise it follows,
a voice alone in the streets.
Blankets of sound wrap me tight,
with no comfort noise,
in the blackness of night.
Garbled whispers nothings clear,
except the noise
of failure and then fear
My blurry mind is all full of snow,
white washed noise,
an emery pain makes it glow.
Flipping the channels all in vain,
the hissing noise,
Will come back again.