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Dank and Hollow as It may Be

Sometimes, when I blog, I wonder whether anyone reads it. I look around the blog I've made, dank and hollow as it may be, and it seems to me an empty, dark place. It's as though I am deep in a well, standing expectantly for some passer-by to hear my voice, and peer in to see what is there. Perhaps my well is empty, I think to myself, and this is why no one comes. Perhaps there is no water, no wealth of knowledge from which to draw and drink and be satisfied. Then, as if to fend off the silence, I say aloud that I must keep talking, I must keep speaking the things I know; for it satisfies the human need to be heard, if only by yourself. These echoes that reverberate off walls of stone must mean something, I think. They must remind me that I am here, real. I know I can soften this cold, unfeeling place, bring these stones to tears. Then maybe, when I am gone, the water they cried will satisfy some traveler, thirsty and in need.

And so I think, believe, resolve,
Commit to stay, possess my ground.
For in this open place of mine
The frightened shine adorn and found.

The stones, the stones, the stones they hear,
Those cold, unfeeling rocks below
Will take the pauper from his fear,
And light the craven dark aglow.



The last all will know of me will be a carved missive on the very stones I thought could never hear. They will tell their message in utter silence, tell those finally listening the thing I learned alone:

Broken stones say more than me,
They moan in speech that's slurred.
But read me, take me in your thoughts,
And know that I was heard.

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