reflections

for lack of anything else meaningful to write, allow me to digress back to something that i wrote a few months back:

through the paper thin walls,
i can hear the murmur of their conversation...

not words, not syllables,
just the faint and distant rumblings.

do they speak of things meaningful,
or just the foosball men as they strike the tiny ball?

is the rumbling reflective of my insides.
paradoxes, not least of these, a period.
inside, my heart seems to be echoing
differently than it speaks.
which is truth, tried,
and which is empty reverberation?

my neighbors quiet their loud chatter.
that within me will soon too silence.
from the heart, the mouth speaks--
but what will it utter?
rumble, syllable?

too many questions, too little time.
i am not resigned.

i just don't yet
know where
i am going.

at times, silence rumbles like no other.
punctuation matters.