Static in a White Room

There is no lull ensuing the earthquakes here.
There are aftershocks
and derisive clocks 
that throw seconds down like flimsy frocks
in the hands of eager men.

I exist harshly between the closing walls of static
that revel in the cessation of the silence I most desire—
but that everlasting serenity
will always succumb
to this poisonous cacophony.

I am a brave body
living in a porcelain shell
that trembles at the vexing whispers
of unborn thoughts.

I am a porcelain shell
protecting a brave body
that covets those who sleep well
and dream sweetly.

It is deafening
under this roof.
It is deafening
in this white room.

By Gwen Peralta

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