I only grow fonder of silence
In the trudge of conversing
The hot spill of strangers
All the prized words of the wise

They know the ins and outs of the clouds
They know the brisk wind and its promises of rain

And gradually I yearn for the silence
To be a servant of myself
As the ego so demands

At the sight of hoisted shrines
All the star-stricken banter
That pounds at my eardrums, day after day
I grovel, for just a chance of silence

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