Man With No Soul Poem by John Henry Gillin

A pericing screech, A throbbing pain
A scream trying to fight its way out
An image that could be described by Edvard Munch
A sound, a whisper down an empty hallway
Too quite to make an echo, not even heard by the mice.

A figure moveing to quick from the conner of you eye
A cloudy sight your unable to make out
A picture of an image with no name to call it
A mirror with out your reflection of only your back ground
Like a whisp of smoke, just a endless hayes.

A pebble dropped in a river, yet theres no splash
A suppries theres no ripples just a pebble
A pebble with no mass, hollow like an empty shell
A shell like an egg ready to crack under to much pressure
Contrasting images of a prism from shards of glass.

A tick from a clock with out a tock, prevalent yet irritating to hear
A clock that tic's yet its hands frozen unable to make the tock.
A middle without an end, no start. lacking authority to complete the circle.

A moment trapped in fantasy described only by a second from reality
Reality where you hear the thunder before you see the lightning.