Oberon

We are born beneath the pendulum’s swing,
To the metronome’s cold,impartial heart.
Each day,a brick of muted grey,
Mortared with silence,set apart.
We build our wall, a towering scar,
To keep out the fear,to hold in the scream,
Until your voice is just a distant radio,
A ghost in the machine.
But sometimes, in the static hum,
A crack appears—a prism-bent light.
A single note,a satellite’s hum,
Punctures the certainty of night.
It speaks of a vast and silent sea,
Where the moon pulls on a dark,deep tide.
And for a moment,we are free,
With nowhere left,and nothing left, to hide.
So we run, against the iron grin of time,
Chasing the echo of that celestial sound,
Longing for the day the final brick will fall,
And true,unfiltered colour, can be found.