The Quiet

I sit in my quiet chair while quiet waves fill the air. Images float of what once was there; they pan the visual of my hollowed room. Crack and creek, the walls they speak, while in my chair. The chest it beats, all the while making the sound, conducting the rhythm around.
The void that's inside me no longer hiding, it's raw and it's bare. I dream and imagine you standing there. In the four-walled absence I wait like a stone and welcome my company,

"Come in, Alone."