i am so many things.

but this is so you may hear me.

sometimes,
my words are thin.
delicate, and wan, and
meager.

and i watch these words
drift to you
like jasmine perfumed
mediterranean breeze,
or flotsam
across a ships bow.

and sometimes they clamor,
and climb,
and strangle me,
like clumsy ivy
and nest in the base
of my mind.

yet they're Never
enough.

but still, i tax them.
the arduous and vexing,
the demanding and stressful
ever insufficient vocabulary.

your love is wine, spilled.
it stains me and
permeates the soil.
and if that wine
be mine own blood
then that love is my sword.

it stains me.

it stains me.

and sometimes you will hear
words that are not Mine.

cruel and jealous.

spiteful and poor.

and in these moments
you will wear my verses,
like a talisman against them.