a perfect shout
settles
into quiet
leavened spaces,
draws an empty
circle full, taut
between numb
and absent
tomorrows-
there the desperate
plead,
the bargainers and soothsayers
meet
to exchange echoes
that fail to carry
against that tide
of static:
of too many mouths
without smiles;
of too few ears
to hook to that
hollowed air
and everyone
too busy screaming
to hear nothing
drown
in the perfected noise
of otherness.


I refuse to enter this contest on the grounds that you have entered...damn, this is a good write! Love, Lane



9 old applause
