And then there's these, the torrid after waves,
Languid flourishings of frolicking affections,
and hopeful benedictions.

And then there's these , those bitter after tastes,
lingering like silence in the stringless keys.
Fluttering in stairwells and over the corner posts,
light time fading fast.

But, I'm young yet, say again and again and again,
until you're too old.
You're blood's ran thin, and the once ravishing rants are leaving
without word or wound to sorrowful soul.

There is no reason for speech, the subjective vomiting of nouns and verbs, colored with the adjectives and adverbs. Ther is no reason for words , stabbing deep in deeping wounds, scabbing over and peeling to scars. There is no reason for soothing speech, soft and buttered murmurings, sickly sweet and choking; stealing air and polluting the atmosphere of sound. The microphone is murdering silence and creating the next endangered species.