Flat-screens chatter through the empty halls

All their words fall dead

Beneath the afternoon’s weary sigh

~

No one speaks

Nothing rises from the selfish ether

And true cries of affection

Burrow deeper into silence

~

Outside of ourselves

The rolling plains grow cold

Under withering groves

Shedding flecks of gold

~

Something stirs within  

In these desolate hours

Fighting outward

To be stolen by a cold autumn breeze