Monday, November 10, 2014

The Silent Poem

Why won't you speak to me?
The silences stretch tense.
Taut strings slicing air
into strips of white noise.
The nights dripping heavy.
The mornings are cloud white.
Loneliness has become loneliness.
No more time spent alone.
It resembles now
the endless dinners being eaten
in front of countless TV screens.
Every day. Mundane. Flickering.
Even writing about not writing
feels better for now. 

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