• Cynthia Crosse

Tight Lips

Silence lingers, waiting.

Patient. Unperturbed by our distractions.

Empty thoughts beget empty words.

Little theories govern

Little men.

In every mind a watcher.

Noting, recording, judging. The

Gold standard

Its well-spring of confusion.

Silence lingers, waiting.

Dutiful. Unattached to our extractions.

Empty acts beget empty feelings.

Fullness is flatness. The

Universe laughs as we grasp for meaning.

Nothing is a secret key. True. Yet one

Cannot even hold to this. Such is the way of the


Tim Paling


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