Words

I do not have any grand swelling theories
To impress you deeply and thoroughly,
Yet words grow and impinge on me
Like moss on auld, sad, beaten walls
That have lived so long
Against their will
Compelled by a ceaseless doom,
That any prelude of the slightest quake
Makes them judder in their eerie silences.
Yet they live on
To tell their dreary tales
Over and over again…

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