Do rocks talk back?


Insolent bastard children

Whose eyes have melted

Sit dreamily in the street

Staring at blank stone

As if in a mirror

They see empty stages

Weary fingers clutching broken strings

The street lights above them

Stark empty sockets

That no longer shine,

The music in all in their heads

Played by ghosts

A memory of what was once there

Creaking melodies

Whose echoes ring

But not of truth,

Filled with muddled reasoning

Repeating the same tired phrases

But never certain

When to come

To their end.

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