Ears of wax consume themselves
with other flames of old
unbeknownst to the mouth so bold
to waste its breath beneath
a pale moon so cold,
hoping to shed a light
into the great unknown.

The lips of ****** red
sing tales of the future,
the eardrum silent to their call,
enamoured with its own infatuation
for the silence of downfall.

What good is it, then,
to sing atop your lung
of dreams and hopes
that will reamin unsung?