Grind
by Arnold Sampson
When all is still,
there is a silence
that only your mind knows.
It comes just before
you surrender to
Sleep.
But,
the silence is not a silence.
It is a hum.
Always present,
it is a phantom
that echoes a sentiment
you too casually toss about in jest;
followed by nervous laughter.
You fake a lightness
that presents itself
instead of
the existential consequence
you should feel.
The lightness blankets
your perpetual lie.
In only the absence of
egotistical noise, can you sense it -
you feel it,
first -
then-
you hear it.
That hum.
The hum sounds innocent
in the low fidelity that is denial.
But when the chirping birds are gone,
and the rattling of your too many chains settle,
you can’t avoid that grind you so often mock.
That grind isn’t your work.
Your work isn’t your grind.
The grinding sound that sounds so distant
at times,
are the gears of your life,
turning,
seeking an inevitable resolution.
They are constant and unyielding,
and constantly increasing in speed.
Grind the wrong grind, risking your peril,
or,
assert agency,
keeping pace with your gears
by living to live;
not living to grind away your time with life.