times on the tip of my tongue
they wait
wait to be spilled
as rain would slide down
a roof of tin

or at the back of the
throat
waiting
to be spit
out
as song
from
bird
that;s
taken wing

in a dark corner
of
my
state of mind

hidden

by


reality
or
as
it
seems

in whispers
that
echo
from
places
moments
times

from heart
break
laughter
wanting

these

words


jSweptson