And the Void turns their Language into a false echo. Even the Listener has come into the habit of reacting false. The poet and listener lie to one another, creating a dawn of street lamps. A real poet can find the Void in an unlistening audience, tricks them into using their own Language, which reflects from them, into the poet and returns with his own. In which, for every action there must be a reaction.
Few poets are real.
Most are soothsayers of fake mechanics and mimickers of overheard Language. In their hands the Language becomes polluted, like water ferments into sludge. This thick Language sticks to the listener's Void and adds density to its already reaching gravity. The Void will grow hard and polished, curved into a perfect oval, where the mass is compressed and compressed, with more applied atop it. The same way an oyster will coat a grain of small sand till it becomes a pearl stuck in their throat.