Silence, then Alarms

a poem, hopefully.

I tried not to think about happiness,
Or unhappiness, or anything, actually,
When the final light flicked off downstairs
And someone listened in, then clicked shut the door:
I lay on the carpet and faced the wall

Sometimes music is there to explain everything
The violins swell, and say hold on
The drums, on my reflection,
say let go.
It pays something forward either way, though.

But sometimes it is just silence
Pierced, every few seconds, by needles of slight, sharp breath
Or shattered by the screams outside
(Because someone has found passion in the moonlight,
Or been attacked.)
And then eventually the car alarms will have lasted too long;
I will close my eyes, my nothing interrupted
My sad record, my diary, my instrument, gone.

Downstairs, a caffeined character asks me where I'm calling from.