Correspondent.

The strongest words,
those unspoken.
The reach and reality
of blank space.
Quiet, once a refuge
now polluted.

We communicate
in silent screams of love
and rage.
The ability to speak stolen
by plastic pegs and reflective
screens.

My dear, a greeting
seldom used
to address
by hand or key
the fluff
of a working day.

We post your thoughts
on endless webs
of faces
and quaking birds,
remain unheard.

Diaries
with rawhide covers
once oracles of truth
remain unopened
white and mute.
wired for sound
but hearing nothing.

Books decorate shelves,
orphans seeking
eyes to fill,
the thrill of mystery, discovery.
Discounted
in a galaxy of
instant misinformation.

Integrity of letters lost
as lies and propaganda
replace printers ink.

human conscience.
Accountability,
the decree of truth,
lost in silken layers
where no one has a name.

Dear sir.
I am writing to express my indignation.

-Dave Kavanagh

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