They all say their lines in perfect style,
Delivering words like fountain pennies,
Heaping their cheapened utterance on tired ears
That beg for valuable silence.
No one takes them seriously anymore,
These thespians of the modern age
Who speak for the sake of filling time
With sound lest they’re forced to think.
We’re buried in a lack of meaning,
Saddened that gone is the day when art
Was all about communication,
Well-crafted and designed to impact.
If I wax poetic it is only because
I love the careful combination
Of symbols we call language,
This powerful tool for sharing ourselves.
The words existed before mankind,
Forming in the vortex of space and time
Until they could not help but create,
For words become what they define.
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