Empty Looping

A little tinnitus music
As the fridge compressor shuts off.
No traffic, no wind, no voices.

The cats are dozing, not purring.
It’s the sonic equivalent
Of waking up in a dark room

With just the odd sparks of vision
The vision system generates,
Or of eating with a head cold,

Sense in question doing its best,
Mostly by talking to itself,
A deformation with nothing

Incoming to redirect it,
Writing when there’s nothing to read.