Comes again the sound, hollow, silent, hard,
against the will that would not speak,
That would sit idle and content
(also, not being spoken to).
But the deafness roars and the silence
declaims ore rotundo;
The blubbery lips drooling and
splatter-spittle flying,
The pontificatory comes again
unbidden.
With nothing of note nor reason,
the madness only —
And that not nobly o’erthrown
nor method ulterior;
Just a pompous blather that only serves
its own dark echo.
Shamed, the hearer covers all senses —
or attempts to;
But the siren’s song, being senseless,
seeps thru the walls,
And so soaking, again
soils the soul.
poetastrophy 