People are talking. The noise
feeds its way into the ethers, intertwines itself with the melody of being and travels
through the wind, gliding in one ear
and out the other. Now these people
they talk, but not about anything in particular. Their noise is just that-- empty sound,
cavernous and empty
Their bellyaching, disgruntled grumbling, greedy seizing of sound
takes the voice away from those who need it most.
They sit on their one-per-cent thrones
Sipping hundred-year-old wine out of the skulls of the abandoned
and bemoan their misfortune.
Beneath, piles of ashes and screams of pain