says the man with no teeth
and fewer friends while whittling 
a stick into a toothpick 
that he couldn't use but yet  
he whittles his meager life
away into a scrap of wood
that came from the woods
of his youth where he 
would run and play well
that forest is now gone but 
at least he has a useless
toothpick from it to remind
him of the simpler days without
the pain of silence if a tree fell in his forest
did it make a sound  -probably-  there were hundreds
falling a day into progress/ions that pound the man's 
empty head into submission he accepted 
the world/truth/pain a long time ago now he 
just goed with the flow and watched the 
world fall as he sat on a hill and whittled the stick 
whittle  /
whittle  /
whittle  /
the rain fell he didn't notice and then the world fell he didn't notice.