> the muteking speakth naught

a crescendo of screams fills up the pause between sentences flooding the subconscious with an endlessecho of black clanging of the crackedbell perched dangling from a rustyring atop a crumbling cathedral built on false promises and fake prophets of doom mouthing eternal love and devotion emptied words hollowed echoes reverberating down the halls of shadowfootsteps realizing once again tis not a bell that tolls but an old dusty plastic party cup in dull white hung from a redrubberband with nothing but a smallen-man sitting inside mumbling prose of eternal love and devotion if not for himself but for the hope of someone listening from the outside a deafmute athousandmiles away bound by fate but disapproved by destiny the smallen-man weeps and his tears overfloweth and the plastic cup runneth of despair and threatens to run dry as the hole at the bottom of the cup rips a blackhole bigger and bigger with every verb with every noun

in the land of whiners and screamers, the mute is king