Sunday, August 21, 2016


(Written 20 August 2016, at 2:00 am.)

the sounds you make, the sounds you hear
are sounds of arrogance and sounds of fear
you perceive the rattles of a funeral pyre
you make excuses for unapologetic gunfire

the sounds i make, the sounds i hear
are sounds of oppression, loud and clear
i silence the vibrations of the world around
and blame it on the sound of sound.

a scrape, a tear, an unintelligible moan
are all it takes for a stone
to come to life and fight for life
while you and i sit idly by.

your oblivion, my consumption, are at par
in all that matters, and all we are
as we continue to strip imaginary layers
of meaning and unmeaning in worldly prayers.

alas, it is you, alas, it is me,
upon whom falls this moment of "poetry",
that knows no better but to pretend
like it must matter in the end.

but you know naught, and i know less,
that all of this auditory duress,
is for no reason good, and no reason bad
but a simple state of affairs,
exceedingly sad.