Little drums

Sound doesn't exist to the deaf lad.
Never hears the sweet lies,
nor ugly truth.

His world pure motion.
Especially on a breeezy day;
branches sway,

leaves rattle away - silent - rhythm on blue(s).

Sound in the brain of the beholder.
Does not exist
out there
is just vibration.

But for the grace;
deep down the canals of ears,
miniature drums work miracles.

The simple gesture: two palms come together; the impact when they meet, creates waves
of energy.

Invisible as spirits
jostling through the air.
Particle by particle,
they enters our ears.

Only waves out there.

Exquisite drums are beaten;
the mind interprets vibration.

Gives you the sound (the deaf lad does not hear).

Brain spotting

They thumb away
swipes and strokes
lost in their phones and tablets.

Giant headphones weigh down their skulls,
drowning thoughts in stacatto procution
it leaks out,
filling the carriage.

Two chaps gabble about yesterdays journey;
how a passenger who could not wait,
relieved himself in a plastic bottle.

This, and other things we do not care to hear, early in the day
the school kids run jokes
oblivious these good times will become an echo
sorely missed.

Across,
A man with hair cropped low
chest pumped up in his uniform
Cherrished stripes on his arm.

Under which pretense does he wash off the blood?

Does he still doubt...
or have his ghosts been crushed?

The watcher
watched as he watches
fingertips on his cheek bone
prickly chin resting in his palm.

Eyes glazed
as the mind is filled with the frivolous.

I sit and judge them so
though I don't walk in their boots.
I see parts of me in them.
Never a dull commute.