Secondhand Conversation

Like a mephitic, obsidian smoke,
Language billows in impervious stacks.
In that clouded awning do our thoughts soak,
Enceinte and tainted with deep shades of black.
Crowded are we, insidiously sheathed,
In the choke-hold of constant stagnation.
Incessantly deprived of air we've breathed,
We cough up secondhand conversation.
We know not the subterfuge that bellows
Beneath the murmurs we enunciate.
We inhale the pareidolic shadows
That emit only to depreciate.
So, what resides there—in our spoiling lungs?
No fresh air— a song forever unsung.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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