All truth
Remains elusive
In the context
Of this speech
When phrases
End abruptly
At these margins
Of our voice

As pages
Tell their edge
On point with
What’s been written
Between such answers
Riddled
By the worpdlay
Of said games

Like tantrums
Boldly fed
Through lines
In tattered papers
And rips
Depicting weakness
Where hands
Had tore one piece

From walls
Holding displays
So the angry eyes
Can fester
As we pass them
Unobservant
To our feelings
Sorely shared

Revealed
As tiny print
But read like
Rawest nothings
Dismissed
For empty closure
Among dreamers
Dared to care

Conversing
While we lie
Across those notes
Left scattered
From fragments
Losing meaning
Like static
Upon our breath

Cause silence
Has its cost
But talk
Is being greedy
If parties
Bleeding idioms
Are hanging
Endless woes

Forgetting
Verbs are gray
As the actions
We attribute
To morals
Keeping purpose
Alive
Within this book.

– J. Pigno