Lingua

These walls that close us in,
Disparate cells devoid of sound,
A prison to twist the soul,
A jail to shatter the thought.
Where nothing seeks,
And nothing is sought.

Reeking of the lightless stars,
Scorched by the lava of Libras and Leos,
Melted into a dormant crater,
Into a lifeless sky of ash.
A deafening storm,
But a silent crash.

Where music drops into static,
And color slips into smoke,
Flaring rifts to part the flames,
Stabbing secants through the ring,
And even as starlight ebbs, 
Arcs apart so somberly sing.

What once rang true,
So through and through,
Resigns to death,
With dying breath,
And leaves behind,
A world confined,
A nescient drought,
When words run out...





For what remains when thought is naught? What remains when all is consumed, when the world becomes everything yet nothing? Thus, appreciate language for what it is––and what it isn't. And wield words well for the betterment of all. #wieldwordswell maybe? (also this was originally completely white but it isn't for the sake of mobile users who lack the weapon of command-a)

Taking Inventory

              A single black hair, two

          unreturned pencils, fifty captured

         moments, three keys, a million locks,

      a family picture frame, a box of firewood,

   a handful of courage, a pen for when, a lie for

why, the line between goal and purpose, the moral

of an old fable, an untaken shot, the pennies from

the cashier, two fallen petals, a dozen unhatched

eggs, a sibling's advice, a dewdrop of resolve,

three impossible words, a paper towel's worth of

spilled coffee, twelve footsteps, three seconds

of complete failure, two backwards glances,

an unopened bottle of ink, an infinity of

doubts, thirty fumbling syllables, an

unshed tear, two meters of thread

unwound, a shattered mirror,

a white colored pencil, the

covers of an empty book,

some guilt, thirty regrets,

two seeking eyes,

one unbroken

silence of

what will

never

be.

This is the half of the tale we all hear. Indeed, this is the half many of us experience for ourselves, and along with it all the unsought emotions and sentiments. On another note, this is the side of poetry I rarely explore. Perhaps it warrants a quick foray...or two?