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A stanza is a step for some to fame,
Those who seek to spread about their name,
By using pathways worn in by their friends,
To reap the blossoms from where their trails wend.
June is the last month of this writer's year,
The purpose for it is not quite so clear,
But what are words of such syllables made,
That will with time like daylight dim and fade.
What is the point for silence always wins,
What is not said never fades nor dims.
Like written words consuming precious time,
Defining urgent actions in poor rhyme.
I thus to silence cast my thoughts and dreams,
For there the answer lies for what it means.
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