An air of mystery,

The sound of grey,

The whispers of air,

Falling on deaf ears,

The outwards hands of a being,

That could frighten or soothe,

A comfortable heat,

That can burn down a whole room,

Glued shut treasure chest,

With words unsaid forgotten inside,

With a discreet key needed,

To free the hums and whispers of the world,

The drumming through your head,

To fill the noiseless void,

The ear piercing beeps,

Of your eardrum’s violent boredom,

A bucket left to rust outside,

Until the sound of rainwater feeds it,

Neglected by the world of language,

To spend time with it’s enemy,

This is the white noise of quietude;

This is how I hear it.