22 September, 2006


The hands have all fallen silent
Where is their thunder?
Have they not but applause for themselves?

They wait for their hubris
Coiled in laps
Thumbs twirling
While eyes meander walls
And ancient corridors
Gleaning minutia
Glazing over details

Seething teeth still chatter
Chewing on ignorant lobes
Filling traditions
With traditional ire

Tears pool about my feet
But do I even muster to walk away?
Or do I portray the martyr
Drowning in a self made spotlight
What do I know of blood?
Even that of my own
I have not seen
It fills me with dread

The sun keeps on shining
It doesn’t give a damn
For nothing we shall ever do
Will change its course.


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