Scrap Paper in a Darkened Room

It's tragic how many voices just trail off, unheard.
How many sirens sing to empty bar rooms,
Poets scrawling on scrap paper in cold, darkened
      rooms that they'll later burn for heat and light.
How the soap-box has been destroyed,
      trampled by armies of deaf-eared, heads-down
            strangers on their way to somewhere sterile,
                  unchallenged and silent.
There are more ears in this civilization than mouths,
      more eyes than tongues,
And yet our art,
      our messages,
            our wisdom,
                  our freedom of thought,
                        our stories and songs are being taken
To the dirt,
      to the grave,
            to OUR graves,
                  to the worms,
Who earlessly wriggle through the dirt to feed on our bodies
As strangers earlessly writhe through the streets
      to feed on our souls.