Shifting and formless.

How a silent heart yearns whilst a loud one means nothing,
Coffee shop talking; all adds up to scoffing.

Sincerity cold-cut is formless and fresh,
A delicacy served on a late mid-summer's night,
Or shared with a quiet party in early fall at three in the morning.

Yet so vacant of it are most,
Hollow shells watching blindly; listening deafly.
"Why waste what precious time we have with small talk?"

Small talk is that which harbors not one ship of something,
Serves not one crumb of meaning.
Indeed so dissimilar from those late mid-summer nights,
And so similar to those blacker-suited business meetings.