Volume

Words lead one into another and another and another.
Muzak-like where cheap talk glides upon the surface
    with smiles and lies.
Endless repetition of the
    same song, same sound, same word.
Saying nothing really, really nothing.
With volume.

A counterfeit caring.
Where exchanges overlap.
Words crossing this way and that.
Saying nothing.
With no hesitation or regret.

Manacles around my vocal folds.
Guard the true and soft down deep.
Wit or tale gloss the glib.
Managing the dead zones with a meaningless drone.

Saying nothing, really.

Really nothing.

With volume.