Adage # 4

you come to the point of this dead-end
numb, you do not move any finger you do not point any finger to anybody
lazy, you do not till any patch of green you begin to hate the soil you do not
appreciate, you do not like any bee, you do not like anything fluttering
hopeless, you do not speak any language, you do not hear any music of anybody, you stay there, just stay there, freezing

silence is too cold like ice.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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