there came no reply

on the television
Nancy was playing her blue guitar
’twas the color
of an island’s ocean
and Ann was singing
of a deep love
tho a bowed-head goodbye
she bequeathed
beneath each breath
we don’t even realize, sometimes
how heavy our breaths fall
into the vastness around us
and there’s a woman
who sometimes worries for me
and if I’m doing alright
tho I don’t often ask
if anyone– is alright
this, already known, most times
and in those frequent moments
we needn’t the reminders, lovers
we’d need only forget, for a while
as each of these coquettish dusks, spent
touches against the west corner
of the next day
so, I listened
closing my eyes, lingering
as Ann was singing
aye, such sweet angst
and Nancy’s fingers found music
in the evening’s dim aperture
the silence which lives between words
and for which, there are none–
holding all those things unsaid
therefore, true
I thought on the people
who’ve no voice
and this– is why art exists
for them, not for us
fools we be, mostly
tho mostly, known to be so
and of the others
those kings– with nothing
to say, but words
tossed on heaping piles
in poetry’s mass graves
well, there’s just no
helping those people
and the light overhead
turned on by itself
sending darkness to the corners’ shadows
“who are you?” I asked
tho– unafraid
there came no reply

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