The Singing

The singing is not green, not purple, but both, ringing in my ears. I came to this town for a new life, and when I tried to leave, the road led back in. Though waves crash outside the village, I do not hear them, only the singing that rings in my head. The man outside, his face is white and featureless, but I know only the singing. His friends come, and the singing gets louder, as the knife sinks into my flesh. The singing is not green, not purple, but both, ringing through my body. It is all I am.