Mute

I know this post comes a little late (not that I am ever one for schedules), but the internet decided to forcibly remove itself from my life. So, for the past three days, I have lived pro natura, and it has been both a pleasant and troubling experience. It was more than a little upsetting to see just how dependent I had become on something in which I don't really take any pleasure. These are the times when I wish we didn't have so many superfluous amenities. The more we're given, the more we are unable to refuse, and if the choice arises, man will always choose the greater over the less. But very frequently, the less is just what is needed. So now we sit at our desks and talk about how we can't live without the internet, when we never see just how little we are able to live with it. Anyways, this poem has nothing to do with that.


Mute

If our words were half as heady
as the thoughts we birth,
sending forth poor messengers
to stumble through the earth,
then our ears would ever course with
golden wine of song,
but mute we are, and mute we stay,
and mute, can only long.