Oh how the saying makes me sick
And excuses, there are not
Devicive taunting, hate's mimic
Word's we weaponized from thought.
So, a new turn of phrase,
a saying born within the dark;
Is whispered to myself, alone,
A Sky-cyphers
Scribbled, trailing mark.
For the first and only time,
Not of me but you
These writing's wordings weave a web,
of synthesized virtue.
To be spoken allowed to oneself,
read, written or thought,
Of each word that's now misused- their purposes forgot.
examined, explained, investigated my life
As if speech were the blade, written words are the knife.
all of the meaning and every moral tethers to our mortal coil,
Life and it's significance-
A product of its transience.
The concept of fate & of destiny, too
Both insinuate journey, the movement through
But where is it- We're going to?
Home, its depths, are dreams of blue.
