I seek for my answers but instead find madness,
amid the clamour of confused voices.
Nearly seven billion tongues pen
a million linguistic forms;
minds deliberate over dialects
and didaction, seeking meaning or God;
or just pleasing the moment
of global intercourse.
Finding a voice amid the babble -
the constant murmuring deafens.
Prophets and messiahs – true
or false? Who knows – there are so many?
Intolerance is neither sin nor
surprising when none can hear
another; individual heartbeats seem
merely virtual or alien, or the newest
con from sad, dusty fingers:
an S.O.S. to reach a calmer somewhere.
In this information overload,
I cannot withstand the flood
of disconnection, which liquidises
all permanent structures of belief.
I ache for silence from such mayhem;
to know the still echo of serenity,
which spoke all along,
under the thunder that is not thunder,
but the world's pain, in throng.
Christopher James Rhodes.