Language, manipulated and
spewing out of my limbs like a divine creature—
but what does it mean?
Similes taking form like sprouting dahlias.
Metaphors, monuments of staggering praise
for late wordsmiths.
Abandoned thoughts drain themselves into a
glass fixture of laser beams screaming at the world.
Language,
a broken jar, aching to be pieced back
together in hopes of being filled to the brim
with a French mélodie.
Shade me from the misery of
Earth’s neglected face, and I will proclaim your
significance to every being.
Words, I have danced with you too many times to
remain ignorant of your mastery.