Messages

Messages scurry in the dead of the night
Through our forests of endless texts
Yet minds that link never quite see
Eye to eye, as we only reveal
That which allows us to blend in with the rest.
So hence we repeat these meaningless words
And never quite know our own souls.
As beneath it all lurk our hidden hearts
Unanswered, unquestioned and bereft of goals
So we sigh and suppress the hollow within
And dance to the tunes that the tin-man sings
And whisper of a light called joy -
A tale oft' told but now destroyed.