The words flow like my life blood.
They're warm sometimes;
with the chill of cold emotion,
Unfeeling to the utmost tenderness.
If spoken; sounding far too rough
for all that they describe.
If sung; the music seems inadequate
to the grace meant at their heart.
Pure and raw, scratched on some scrap.
In all, attempts to tell of the magnificence
of love; the affect of which I do not even know.
Reaching my hand, too clumsy to apply the pain
and beauty felt;
they stumble
and stop.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 10:14 AM UTC
The words flow like my life blood.
They're warm sometimes;
with the chill of cold emotion,
Unfeeling to the utmost tenderness.
If spoken; sounding far too rough
for all that they describe.
If sung; the music seems inadequate
to the grace meant at their heart.
Pure and raw, scratched on some scrap.
In all, attempts to tell of the magnificence
of love; the affect of which I do not even know.
Reaching my hand, too clumsy to apply the pain
and beauty felt;
they stumble
and stop.
© JBM Feb 1999
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