Smoulder

A short essay, on the purpose of polite, meaningless words-
The ones that grate against your gritted teeth and sound like the crunch of fist on bone-

They fill those silences, where you want to burn the giant redwoods,
see the ancient bark crackle
And the small creatures run for wide open spaces,
and we know, how they yearn
for those wide open spaces

But we forget, when it is quiet,
About the taste of sweat, the fear of the flame
and the dangers of smoke inhalation

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