The Storm

I'm standing in the eye of the storm,
watching everything and everyone
moving around
me.
What was once my quiet in a room full of thunder
now has me bounded
in shackles and chains
to words buried six feet under.
And every once in a while
they are sprinkled with life
but only come back to haunt me.
I can't move--
My heart is but a slave
working from dusk to dawn
making sure Massa don't beat it once more
even though the lashings come at his own discretion.
Even in slumber it does not rest--
It is a wonder that it is still beating.
Once you stood in the eye of the storm
watching everything and everyone
moving
but around us--
And it was quiet.