I collect words like fine antiques,
Admiring the way this ancient lexicon rolls off my tongue,
The same way I’d admire how crystal candlesticks glow in the sun.
I create sentences like painters create art,
each syllable delicately placed,
Much like each individual paint stroke in Monet’s Japanese gardens,
Admired but never truly understood.
I cherish books like passions held close to my heart,
Comparing the glide of page against page as they turn in excitement
To the soft-lighted kisses shared in quiet moments,
Loved and filling my heart with contentment.

Writing seems safer, I feel
Because letters looped together
can flow so fluently through pens,
not speech though.
They can stand their *******
grounds when my legs give way
And words written down don’t
get stuck in my hand like they
do in my throat.
They can can’t stutter and stumble
like my tongue when I try to
stable my breath.
No one can tell if I’m laughing
or crying through written words alone.

We began to write
The thoughts that crossed
The line that we had written in the sand
The boundary they sold us on these lands.

And we’ve become the old age rising
Understanding word beyond the spoken
What can compare to the things we see?
It feels like the simplest summer breeze.

Some shot bolt found our heart the target

No point to stem the steed now bolted

The inky reed quivers in every hand

I've come across these beautiful lines

That you have loved

into this sand.