The Monotonous Sound of Peace

The world creaks on its axis.
It is a discontent that sometimes stills my hand, mid-stroke.
It is a pitted, spinning merry- go-’round in an amphitheater of stars.
It is not a secret sound.
The patrons that live in the rafters offer their rusted cries:
Round and round, merrily and merrily!
The bent ushers raise their hand-me-down rifles and blast away.
The flighty patrons fall.
The scraping, for a moment, is drowned by gunfire.
The ushers begin to shoot at nothing.
The crows cannot hear the creaking even in their graves.
My hand resumes.
The world groans on its axis.
But sometimes I cannot hear it.

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