words, forever,
and their pressing occupations
of living.

the multiplitude is something
that crosses a territory.

say a hand where, somewhere impermissible, still ganders over,
warm to touch. a filigree of
fingers reaching to where
enlightenment is something so small
like a match-flame.

they inexplicably dress themselves
to the soul's penchant
and their redundancies are recurring most over tongues of flame.

sometimes when there are no
words, silence continues to
resuscitate them in their
stations. a mutiny of stone
under the shade of a nook,
or migratory horses seeking
rest at the foot of hills
where their crests look
at them painting them white
with blackness.

where words go,
we follow. even in the tracklessness. our pursuit
knows no ending, like the turning
of a day's page and its finality.
like tasting truths for the
first time, an old moon's wane.
lights athwart where they
cease to fade, a confection
of colours where all men see
fairly, what words inscribe
to riverbed quietude.