“it may be hard to imagine,”
he muttered, catching his breath,
“that once upon a time I was garrulous”

and he had been, spewing words
like the very breath that escaped him
gulping at the air in preparation for more

“but that was when I believed
I still had something fine to say
something quite worth the hearing”

silence is its own jewel
a precious fullness wrapped in
nothing more than precisely that—nothing

too much time has passed
for me to believe that these petty sounds
might convey anything approaching substance

after all, what is the point
of blethering on and on self-importantly
when nothing of importance is left of the self?

1 thought on “silence

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