I could have been a beating drum
on the ears of giants,
or a curled talon scratching
distinguished brows.

Our generation, an intonation,
was born a variation that
did not matter.
We were only kids
with sour opinions,
a virus spreading
from text to ear.
But the affliction was cured
when our fingers were severed.

The handless arm grasps no pens;
the tongueless mouth speaks no words.
So there is nothing to say,
just another Samizdat
put to deletion.
I am reminded in a nostalgic sigh of
how the world could have been.

Is this how the world ends?
This is how things are,
Questions about questions,
half-living mouths speaking.

Matthew Thomas Donovan

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sun-falls-west/