Upon the edge
of a night I
whisper, to a
page that is silent,
but for its own
silent shuffle,
crunch crunch,
rumble rumble,
the dust mites hear.
I'd hear it if
I quit the page,
scrunched and
bunched and punched
the page, filled
utmostly with
the type of sanity
I'd never have
suspected. Infected
projected and dissected
lyrics from a mind
that scrunched from
a page. Rhymes
from a coward,
whose tools had
been made eons ago,
by sunny sullen
madmen, archaic assassins
sent to kill any thought
they hated, but they didn't
realize then, they had
also made.
