Still holding still, this organic pen, not quill, more shrill in voicing sin,
Not it's origin, but tied tightly within, to that black blob which generates the love between them.

Still unused, afraid of it's refuse, and so it's voice is refused, until a choice is due.
Its voice isn't new, its ploy is difficult to view, and its crew is formed of more than these two.

The silent crowd which surrounds, in their whispers, loud, hounds the few,
They desire speech, whether bitter or sweet, because silence is too true.