The Weight of Quiet

The house is cold, the furnace still,

a sudden hush, against my will.

Woke up to nothing, no engine hum,

just the steady fall, the quiet come.

Outside the pane, the streetlights blur,

thick flakes descend, a muted stir.

They land on white, already deep,

a secret pact the city keeps.

This kind of quiet, it pushes in,

past window glass, beneath my skin.

It makes you listen to your own breath,

to thoughts like ghosts, beyond all death.

A heavy peace, a kind of dread,

the world held still, on a soft bed.

And every whisper of the falling snow,

just makes the inner voices grow.