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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Inspired by a story I heard from a man who lost his hearing in the Afghanistan war - so, dedicated to him.

Submitted: October 10, 2016

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Submitted: October 10, 2016



My shirts lie un-ironed in a heap on the ground.

I’m listening intently, yet no longer hear the sounds

Of the traffic, of the town; can’t escape the silence

I leave my room, and walk about the void.


I look skywards, and watch the night-time sky.

The night is now my favourite time of day

For in a moment, for a time, I can pretend the city’s quiet

And it’s not just me who cannot hear a thing.


People use hand signals to tell me what to do

When ignored, they send me to a trauma counselling room

But I don’t go; I’ll simply manage without hearing.

Tell me, what’s worth hearing anyway?


The night is clearer, more defined without distractions;

The leaves in trees are still when wind forces no action

The television set, when off provides so much less pain

The void, it holds more comfort than the rain.

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