A whisper within the tall reeds,
                          as hollow words

echo though those static.


Yet ever word has motion
             on those unmoved.

Yet words can collect upon the cracks.


Weaving untruths between each,
              caressed form.

And still though unmoved.
      I heard the lies that started

as a ripple in a pond.

But made there way through
  the reeds that stood tall.

And I just gazed as the wind told me,
          that no matter the ripples.

A breeze is still made,
      and will pass through,
           the reeds of static

                               whispers.


I cried on the edge,
             knowing
             that I neither had thrown
                                  a stone of lies within

or that I had breathed untruths
that were
                wavering between static reeds.