(no subject)

Jul 04, 2007 01:09

When you speak into the wind
It dissipates if there's no ear to catch it.
Like it never existed,
Regardless the effort to get it out.

Sad, these sounds short lives are;
Born on to this world in an orgy of idea
To find themselves as quickly depleted,
Dejected and dismissed before demised.

The ear catches not, the mind fathoms not
The idea dries up, whithers in a frustrated end,
Decaying into a tear, a sad memory lingering
Near to the tongue that gave birth to it.
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