Drink in hand, and a perfect face
An empty glass is just a disgrace
Conversation is simply asinine
Like a vulture sipping on wine
Just waiting to begin the feast
But the beast is slow in dying
Ignoring the soul that's crying
Talking to the hand, instead of the fist
Never would the words flow like this
We'll always have this at least
No cease to the lesson learned
That emotions are not earned
They're drunk from the deepest well
Spilling into a levy, where they dwell
Mayhap the chatter will surcease
Silence is achieved in rotating worlds
In a universe of unspoken words
When realistically all that will matter
Is this dizzying, inane chatter
*Where only syllables will decrease