‘the writer reads aloud from a posting on the wall, looking for a sign’

talking to myself
has always come
easy, as none
of you will

ever

come close
to knowing
the heart of
the matter.

as the seconds,
minutes,
days and hours,
months, years
and decades

pretend to
meander by
(their tired
motion backdrops
painfully
obvious)

the mutterings
grow louder,
calling out
from my lips
with
careless
crescendoes

which flee fast
to bounce
and to echo
off the walls

i have built.

surrounded
am i,
within the
citadel of
sound

and sarcasm;
insulated to
death;
growing colder
by

the faux
second, minute,
hour, day, year
decade of
decay and
decadence.

and, finally,

assured of
my ascent
into an
auspicious
heaven of

self-talkers.