Dear, sweet empty vessel, rattling loudest;
I often wonder if you know the choice
is always yours to still that irksome voice?
Or is it when you feel at your proudest,

causing butterfly thoughts to rend the air?
Teeming morphemes tumble in profusion,
filling space between us with confusion,
thus leaving logic lost, and in despair.

It's futile having a conversation
with Dunning-Krüger victims such as you,
when success means seeing your words accrue,
spiting sense, blind to the observation

that no-one's listening; that we disdain
you with the thought, "oh, here she goes...again."

MP 9/17924