-we are, we are.
who in the world do I write to,
these postcards, where do they go?
all of my letters, sucked into some vacuum.
who listens to me?
-we do, silly.
-we are collectors of words.
this mumbling drifts off into nothing,
a word torn away by the wind
does it dry up,
like a puddle in the sun?
does it explode?
-no, no, here it is,
-our bags are never full
-oh there's another,
-a shiny silvery one.
-quick, before it's gone!
who is my audience?
speak up you silent ones.
-oh but we must be quiet,
-we must guard our treasures.