There are many things
not worth listening to,
yet we say them.
And there are
things worth listening to,
yet silence hushes us,
like a candlelight constantly poking at lightlessness.
It pulls us,
into the deep verbal eruption
of a nightmare,
a world with no wizard in its Oz,
only witches—
men and women,
marching in funeral queues
for the processions of right and truth.
Until it all comes to a full stop like a vagrant ink—
in a burial
six feet under,
beneath the soil of practicalities
and the tombstone
of political correctness.
