It Is Still Poem by Etienne Charilaou

Stillness - it's still, nothing stirs outside.
The air does not move, there are few sounds.
It is dark and quiet, no sounds to interfere
with the mind's meanderings and probings.

Questing into the infinite so near at hand,
but no answers are found - the silence
is King, is Emperor tonight.

What comes before the Emperor, and bows?
What comes kneeling in submission?
What force is there to open the
shut eyes of the mind or heart?
What or who dares to speak his name?

Slowly, the pen inscribes.
Letter after letter,
word after word.
Word, absurd, occurred, demurred.
Oh, when will it be heard?
I mean the trump of Doom,
the final say, the final Day.