He who thought silence golden
washed his hands of conviction.
This malnourished conjecture of men,
cut off, stolen from the ears,
produces a solemn yearning for sound.
A paradise of steady, unyielding conscious
with no outlet.
Words held in paper:
a second rate home to the warmth
of breath thrumming through them,
passing uncontained into the world.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
He who thought silence golden
washed his hands of conviction.
This malnourished conjecture of men,
cut off, stolen from the ears,
produces a solemn yearning for sound.
A paradise of steady, unyielding conscious
with no outlet.
Words held in paper:
a second rate home to the warmth
of breath thrumming through them,
passing uncontained into the world.
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