Inaudible Words

He is inaudible from you and kindness,
His words muttered are gladdening me.
Why do the strokes of the pen be wise?
From him they reiterate a mean life
But I see in those words the written nature.
My condemned men and women
Of this church we call godly,
Evoke pity in the hearts of men whose stale
Bread remakes a cherished belief,
These pizzas remould into happy tricks
Of the pen and page.

He does not murmur a vent of air,
His words from speaking are not visible,
Since the lips are parched
From the gluttony of the bread-eating.
Butter is revolving around the Earth,
And yeast is the killing crop.
My oven is not his own,
He has stolen the bread of God,
And made his own from looking at
The godly bread.
Then the words flow from the pen
That he shadows with signs
Of the great collapse.

Since he went away,
The reality has been changing
And he seeks to pencil in
A few words for my demand.

The old words are bitterer
Than the new recent apologies,
Yet matter and energy still
Lives down here in the heart,
Where blood flows to the points
Of a century.

We see his words, and we mutter to him
Our apologies, that have so many
Instruments,
That we have also.

The old words obey him and the new words
Fill him with more honey
So sweet in taste.

Thursday, July 31, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: writing
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