Mute

An older poem on a fresh prompt.

The faces all blend into a mesh of silence
They might as well all lack a soul.
We all hurry about like mad ants, all afire
We might as well all lack a soul.

Such solitude truly, is a remarkable feat
Now achieved in the densest of lands.
Living shoulder to shoulder, ever growing older
All alone, a whole world in my hands.

Even with noise bursting always around
One can hear the dead silence within.
And as we sit all around our own rulers handheld
One can hear the dead silence within.

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