Rubble

A million withering whispers and it seemed the entire world had gone selectively deaf. A million charcoal outlines washed away with a single easy-to-swallow placebo of hollow blatherings and veiled promises. A million momentary emotionalisms submerged inside a diluted, fatty, tonic surging straight into the ceratoid vein of every singular, struggling heart. If their existence was defined by their silence, do they really even exist, or were they just a figment of the imagination - part of some scintillating nightmare that drowns itself every dawn with the moon. Or, perhaps when you crawl across a crumbling bridge, it's just easier to block out the intermittent echoes of the plummeting pebbles and simply not look down.