Nothing To Say
And if you have nothing to say
Except what is strictly necessary
What are the points that you may
Be fed up with, so measurelessly
It could be the war you are taxed with
Or the regular fiddling with apps
Are you not a robot, they ask you
You probably are, under wraps
Or maybe it could be the weather
Repeatable orange alerts
A wind that’s too warm for the leather
But cold for the cotton t-shirts
And everything looks plainly evident
Spins like the merry-go-round
You know fairly well what’s been said
You don’t need to echo that sound
May speakers apply to the air
In tireless wondering why
A few withered leaves over there
Drop down the expected reply..
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