When I write…
The color flows from the pen of me,
the loops and whorls carrying the texture,
the rough and the oily smooth,
and I can feel them pushing up,
growing into something unimagined.
Life breathed and branching,
like a time lapse sky,
sun and stars streaking ,
where even the trails left behind,
profound and proud.
I was here and this is what I say,
what I mean.
a legacy ,
of font and heart and mind.
When I speak…
The words falter out,
crumbled and dried like the lid was left open too long,
like scratchings from a run down pen.
My mouth and my mind do not meet in timely measure,
in that admirable gleaming brass precision,
and so I have taught my eyes to slump
in my inward turned face,
as to not engage with anyone,
who may speak to me in a language too crowded,
for me to filter all at once.
Hours later the pieces may fall together and coalesce
but the moment quickly ages and shifts
and they slide into the dimness of the recycled.
Non verbal still speaks.
But you must listen with something else,
just your ears.