Yourself?

ode.

give me words.
so fragile �
mere ink on carbon-based paper.

though silence is golden, like the words
drip drip dripping from the lips of a honey-tongued orator
in a picture in a history book.
but he�s long gone too, and all that remains are his words.

what have you got to say to me?
paper.
you know nothing, speak nothing.
yet this two-dimensional urn holds the potent ashes of ancient wordsmiths long gone to dust.
they�re dead now, but their words live on.
all that�s left is what they left.
give me poetry or give me death.

i could crumple you in one hand without even trying.
i know better, of course.

silver-cold glimmers run down my arms.
i swallow words, gulp them down like a cat drowning in cream.
words to break my heart to turn it to stone to shake the filing cabinets inside my head
to enrage the deep dark places to find the grail to paint my senses.
i would die for words.

you give, i take.
your epiphany is mine.
it floats through my head, like a gentle dream of flying.

i would pretend to understand, but words catch me up
fling me away punching holes in the clouds through the stratosphere out past the moon and the stars into the expanding outer reaches and then

pull me in like a magnet
to the core of sensation and catch me,
rock me safe like a small child
bring me home to words.

posted by anne @ 11:17 pm