Dull sounds of silence

breed its seeds

of apathy, caught

in downpour

of smog, veiling

absence of light,

weeping echoes

left behind,

hardened clay

without center,

dead trek

to nowhere,

hunting for hope.

Awe extinguished

as sun beats down.

If I were apathetic, I wouldn’t care about the words I put down on the page. I wouldn’t look for just the right sequence of syllables to convey my point. In fact, if I were apathetic, I wouldn’t care about writing anything or what the reader would or would not get from the experience. But I’m a writer. By definition I cannot be apathetic, because that would violate the writing process and the implicit bond between writer and reader that something of value will be exchanged. May I never fall into such a hopeless state.