And to think the word that left us

Was ever our own, ever ours, it becomes.



Words grip the iron teeth



What mawkish

We caress,

Projecting enmity

On false enemies.



The movement of the mouth

Makes no ideas

But the air speaks

To shut us up.



My breath

Smudged in writing

Lies dying

On a paper



And of this Dwindling

Fluid in escape,

Evaporating into the

Wind of our breath,

The breath of our word,

A word is not yet spoken,

For it forever dwindles.