By Jake Rosendale
A half completed hotel comes down around
a hollow bastion of silence and peace.
How rare silence is; how preciously finite
like all the good things.
Like wine and cherries and orchids
and any combination of the three.
My father and I used to climb mountains
to experience a silent so absolute that
you had to hold your breath
because it was making too much noise.
A silence so complete that
you can hear the trees grow.
But the hotel is crashing down
around my ears so clamorous and horrid
leaving me alone freezing in the cold
rubble and ruins surrounding me listening
to the cars pass by on the interstate.
How quickly stained glass breaks.

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