The Outstretched Hand


It begins soft and slight,
a rhythmic tap, tap, tap.
Insistent and incessant,
it becomes white noise, unnoticed,
a forgotten fan in a child’s room
at night helping her fall asleep.



the tapping is answered;
the one who answers
disappears, and a hole
opens, an emptiness
never again filled.
Grief follows.



without warning, white noise becomes noticeable.
Tapping ceases and is replaced with a deep silence
extending into the recesses of space and time.
Waves ripple the fabric of our universe.
Silence is filled with wails of mourning.

And the tapping is replaced
by a powerful


knocking.  A deep, hollow sound
echoing through eternity; it is a constant.
No longer white noise, it brings fear and pain,
an expectation, not of everyday life,
but of life every day,  It is it’s equal, an
opposing force.

It is


night to morning
ignorance to education
old to young
fire to water
war to peace
Heaven to Hell
life to death

It continues; the door cracks and
with a deep thud, closes.
A mourning silence, and, once again,.
knocking resumes.

Once heard,


it is ever present,
never again to be white noise;
a hollow sound that haunts humanity
until we pass through the door,
walking into the outstretched hand.


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