is not the howl of a canine,
  or the gesticulation of a hand
  alone, which if left unspoken to,
  ceases to make meaning. what we
said is what shapes our mouth,
  and what we mean curdles
    the body of who hears it:
  hurting which is another word
    for weakness, and bravery which
is a transmutation of lout, this rigmarole
   is far nothing but a *****, if you wish
   to call it that, or perhaps a gladiolus,
    a scimitar, a punched daguerreotype,
a subliminal stereo, a ludicrous cacophony.
   and if there is much conspiracy to say that
  the rind of words is tensely, the appropriation
     of sound, then it shall be that the song
    I sing, is for the world to own, unmindful
   of its hapless victim. and because trees are
     brindled, thatched to the Earth, reaching
    for the desolate sky, it is the distance in between
       where our words are, trying to make
        ends meet.