Silence
is subject.
Infinite and default.
The sublime,
a poets' boon.
But silence
is not our lot.
We clutter,
filling,
filling.
Trash skyscrapers,
corpses
language and noise.
Noise.
Wonderful, rapturous noise.
Grinding steel,
movement of earth,
Noises of lives,
big and small.
And we're getting closer,
filling infinity with our mounds
and heaps.
Meaningless and beautiful,
what's here and what's left,
resounding to the edge of reason,
further
and
further.