Our shelves are stacked
With novels
Retelling the journey.
Before novels,
There was poetry.

Our textbooks
Bind essays
Explaining and outlining
The thoughts
Of great thinkers.
Before essays,
There was poetry.

Our stage,
Our world,
Are replete
With dramas
Mirroring our plight.
Before drama,
There was poetry.

Before poetry,
There was
The Great Boom,
Expanding into
The vacuum;
Making the universe
Our metaphor.

People do much damage.
I guess I'd say,
                           you should go.
That's probably the best we can do.

I replay you like my favourite song;
over and over
waiting for a change in lyrics
in tune, in tempo-
over and over.
I know all the words,
have grown accustomed and even tired.
Yet, there's no way I could ever hit Stop.

over and over
waiting and waiting
over and over
I begin to mouth the words as you sing them.
I can't be sure whether it is mocking or familiar
but it's something I know.

I replay you like my favourite song;
over and over
high and low
volume does not matter for I already know.

It begins to lose significance
I sleep and wake to your same song;
over and over
lower and lower
And before I notice, it is gone.
The song I knew so well, I can no longer find.

We move to the next song,
to the next listener-
and we commence all over.

The came down from their misty mountain hold
Short of stature but oh so bold
Helms of beaten iron on their heads
Belts of gold on girded waist
Sword Axe and hammer, the tools of war
Oaken shields also worn
They came to beard the dragon in his lair
Bring rescue to a maiden fair
Held in fear against her will
In that rancid caven deep in the hill
Each warrior knew of the danger faced
But would not retreat as coward disgraced
When the searing flame of hell released
Would burn the hair and singe the face
For these were warriors of a race so old
They the dwarves from the misty mountain holds

won't you listen to my
                  silence?
fill the emptiness inside.