Disorder

Silence is screaming into darkness again, and the bombardment is deafening.

Light can't touch where sound begins, for the cacophony is blinding.

How presumptuous to beckon the sun with gladness, when birdsong welcomes only despair.

It is cruel to bid one goodnight, whose torment won't end until the morning.
 
Or harsher still, to wish a stranger good day, who may be in ardent search of good night.

To live without existence seems to be a constant plea, but to continue as I am may to soon be the end of me.