hitherto and heed.
this man with no greed.
face as mere as ants,
but heart as written so.
forthwith and in the now,
with a chest in the wrong place,
our brains midst logic and reason,
and mouths spurting mace.
for this man has trees that grow from his apple,
and lyrics that tie themselves to the oak,
simply tugging at his own branches,
and gaining strength as it broke.
for the world he laid himself atop,
does aches and curves his back,
for those hands move with grace against blank skin with ink,
and his lyrics sink and crack.
for the expensive sap,
from the alabaster jar,
glimmers quietly 'neath gasps,
and the noose and the
for his eyes are crusted,
and his lips are chapped,
but his arms--and heart--and mind remain a never.
eager and spotless,
fearless and willing,
through trials and hot rocks,
the earth he's tilling.
trails of sound and light leading out to the world,
hold silent despite his might.
and urge and creeping yearn,
for his empty fright.
for the grass shivers at the fall of his pen,
and world cries out at the whisper,
but the man is nothing but mumble and slack,
and has everything held as a lisper.
for a man is nothing without his eyes,
and nothing without his lips,
a mere inconvenience,
to the insipid mind.
for an utterance may increase the waters it treads,
but it certainly wont sow.
and reap what it does,
without years to know.
for the green tree grows
merely to sink into silence, you say...
the man wags a finger,
and chapped lips ache a smirk.
quill to mouth--connected by heart to mind--line by line
is an endearment,
and engraving of passion...
as speech may serve nothing to mind... if it goes through one ear...
and spills out the next...
it's the words concocted and stirred up by man--singing by lyre...
and the purple eyes that open
to the mirror ether.
For the wordless man...