my hands are mumbling something about
moments of grandeur, philosophy of life
words already spoke- world could live without
why choose I fear quiet as real as a knife?
a predicta-poet who's turned all her tricks
will the page weary of the same tattoos
will syllables return to rocks and sticks
will the parables fade, the truths misconstrue?
my fingers shake upon the keys
if I cease to murmur, will I cease to be?