crickets

The loneliness is starting to settle in. Still children, they start learning ways to imprison attention. Implementing sounds in locations where they know survival is vital. A cry for help and need. Their last trace to an endless season before the warmth invades. A perspective ceased by merely closing their mouth, if they ever do, but they can’t, and they shouldn’t. In the surrey they would be better off, for we do not welcome them here. Conquered by our silence they had grown and adapted, unwillingly becoming tired under our supervision and neglect, not fast enough to realize our personality, along with sleep patterns –the tall and endless wall of dense dreams. I can not imagine them counting each star just to forget what they look like in the morning, well I could, actually. Their melodies prickle our ears, while their souls dissolve just to be heard, not clear or loud enough but unfriendly as well, without getting to know us. Strangers in an area familiar to us and feared by them. The night’s age is a hundred wrinkles past the hour as their echo’s flame to life. Burning inside, desperation endures virtues of their existence. I attend to their calling, though I cannot recognize their pain. Nameless, these mortal beasts and their voices are distilled into the air, where no women nor men of all ages can deliver their cry’s. Innocent or perhaps evil, I can not judge, for I only come forth to them with one question, “to whom can I speak to, to end your annoying fucking sound?”