Behind the stinging bars of social delusion,
Meanwhile mellifluous sounds sit so surreptitiously
Behind battering-ram-like choruses,
Silence is golden.
We hear the noises of eager beavers, morning birds,
Murders of crows with irksome calls,
A cacophony to raise even the deaf from their graves,
There’s never a good time to join the parade.
Seats filled with canvas friends,
Buckled, strapped, chastened by the law’s unwanted wrath, yet
Further back we hug one another like old comrades-
Supportive, not sympathetic,
“If only the tracks were cheaper than the roads”, one says.
Now utterances are thrown,
Carelessly, not caringly,
Constantly, not consistently,
Balls of fiery mesh watered down by an oncoming chuckle,
But still we sit silently,
Silence isn’t golden, it’s gold-plated silver.