Words fall like copper coins in empty wells.
They make good sounds. They mean nothing.
The young must touch the flame themselves,
Each hand learning its own kind of heat.
I have seen better men than me
Try to pour wisdom into unwanting cups.
The cups were good. The wisdom was good.
But youth knows only its own thirst.
Each morning brings its own new light.
My shadows will not match their shadows.
My victories will not fit their wars.
My maps lead to countries that no longer exist.
They stand straight and proud and right,
The way I stood, refusing the hands
That reached toward me with ancient truths.
Now I am the hand. Now I am the truth.
The silence is better than the telling.
Time is a better teacher than tongues.
Let them build their own ladders of scar tissue.
Let them earn their own way to knowing.
I speak this to the empty room.
The room holds what it wants to hold.
And somewhere, someone younger listens,
And decides not to listen at all.
2025, Lost Lounge Massacre