Cynical Silence

prove to me
words are not random,
that they do not merely emerge
in tandem
to our drive
to lyrically proliferate,
to obliterate ears
with repetitive banter.


correct me, please.
resurrect me
from this cynical silence
because i'm on my knees
after colliding
with the medium in which
i've been confiding
for years.


make me a vessel
for the epiphany
that keeping quiet is wrong,
and i will sing you songs
like before.



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