Nobody could have prevented the downfall of the urchin,
the downfall of this slick enterprise;
broken now it hangs half-detached, soon to fall to a shattered reality.
The excuse is
uttered in the low, vibrating notes of the
civil, kind scratch of some slow song
played on looping values
and echoed in dead testaments to broken tablets,
cracked and misused.
A thought is a thought, even if mislead;
and silence is empty spare the knowledge of self-
while we talk, these empty walls decide
that there are worse things we could always
be doing. And better things we
could forget to do.