Din of voices crowding out thoughts
Thoughts constructed of safety pins and toothpicks held together with spit
Spit dribbling out of the hungry mouth that yearns for companionship
Companionship which is desired but not truly felt
Felt people saunter past, their fabric feet barely touching the ground
Ground into a pulp are the vicious spiders of memory
Memory is a tactile thing that turns in contemporary web
Web of truths spinning and spinning beneath agile fingers
Fingers dug into temples' throbbing ache of words words words
Words are not enough to describe this mortal dullness
Dullness like the din of voices crowding out
Thoughts