muteent

Words begin to sing,
when read to a beat.
Trochees and spondees
march with stumbling feet.

Your tongue slap-tapping
the dark side of your teeth,
and flipping syllables about,
like smoothed out,
utterly devout
rocks of the Lethe.

Words on a page
won't dither with age,
but still they yearn
until the day that they burn
to be shouted with intensity and rage.

This poem brought to you by a Dubious Reality Under the Guise of Solace...