Sound Barrier

and it drifts through the air, water, soil, and it only echoes a few feet past the mailbox. This sound, this wave that now fluctuates with the wind and the vibrations from the doorbell that rang three times after the deliveryman dropped off the package, releasing a burst of power into it, a loud detonation of decibels that creates thousands of soundwaves traveling in full speed, yet its force is distant to its radius, and the following waves get cut off by the

sound of the rain, heavy teardrops soaking down the cold cement, and massive waterfalls running down the rooftop, flooding the doorsteps, amplifying the frequency of the sound inside the package, wanting to swim out, its soundwaves quickly crashing on the shore as the water stretches out and the cardboard absorbs it, drowning the lungs, the source of power of this noise, and even when the wind comes and blows the rain away, it hits the branches and

the reverberation of the crows flying through the deadness and their loud, loud pitches cancel out the sound inside the box, this buzz that throws up the water and takes a deep breath and finally hits full blast and reaches its loudest point, a thrilling resonance that is almost heard by a dead man walking down the street just now, but the frequency gets lost

somewhere in the sunflowers on the porch, dying out of desertion, they fan out the sound of this voice now clustered, this decaying soul slowly dropping down its beating in a final effort to reach the air, or reach for air, or something, someone outside must hear it out soon and let it out of

the dried out paper wrap that scratches the floor weeks later, over and over cause the wind never ceases to cut through this wasteland, and the sound inside the box rattles to the scratching, its muscles cramp and shake the dust off the top, a bare echo inside all the silence in this forsaken time and place and this

clock on the wall inside the house, that oddly picked up back its pace, as the needles that still hang off now swing along with the whispering of the wind, a call to motion that lightly struck the sound, that reminds the content of this box that it has to find a path to get out of this net that

is falling apart, rotting away months later, giving this sound an exit, and as the first wall comes down, what was once protecting the sound is now waste, and the sound ramps up and releases and its eager waves blast off in successive crests that crash into each other, in fight or flight, and the sound is liberated to its last breath and there is nothing around that could possibly stop it, but how fast, for how long will this sound travel

it fades to nothing as the cannonball is fired and exceeds the speed of sound, turning everything else to nullity, and this last bit of life once wrapped up in brown paper like a piece of meat, a living soul, a breathing voice, echoing within walls and then delivered from its confinement is now fallen by the mailbox, forced to extinction

but it hums a last song, a sigh, to the birds that flew off the trees just now, that turned around and looked, and picked up the sound like a worm and put its body back up to let the sound breathe out that last murmur out of the heart, joining the breeze like a feather in one final wave that made it back to the cycle, back to the current