514 (19.11.2015)

Who isn't sick of stagnant words right now?
Whose head is not filled up with wasted words?
Does nobody else want to take a bow,
And throw all letters out to passing birds.
I hate all things I've written and all thought
I wish I'd never clicked out any lines,
For all amounts to little more than nought
When I look at our world and read the signs.
How petty is all thought and word and deed?
How lost are all the things we think we've done,
When we stand in the presence of real need,
And in the shadow of a loaded gun.
For words are words and only words they are,
With only words we only get so far.

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