There are tales lost in oblivion
covered with dirty gossips
and scraped with killer knives.

They told yarns and narratives
designed in blue sheets of
whooping sounds and
sweet temperaments.

Cold behaviors of ears
resisting strange accounts
while tongues of continents
spark chatterbox against
the anchored nights.

We can’t escape from
these snatchers
stealing our coffee hours
and reading times.

But we love to hear
deciphering conclusions
of another whereabouts.

Heads remember.
I am heading to the lords.

To hear is not to listen.
We destroy our satellites.


About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Chatterbox

  1. unfetteredbs says:

    to hear is not to listen,…. excellent

  2. Kharma says:

    I really love the wordplay with this peice. Makes me want to read it over and over and over. Ahhhh…the imagery.

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