Sunday, June 19, 2005
Words rise as steam,
cold condensation really;
If only to form
against the roof of my mouth,
though wanting to press
themselves into existence.
But, some words
are better left unsaid –
you know that -
fading into those black holes
that never see the light.
My tongue has turned
to water – and
I am a weak master
that keeps it there.
cold condensation really;
If only to form
against the roof of my mouth,
though wanting to press
themselves into existence.
But, some words
are better left unsaid –
you know that -
fading into those black holes
that never see the light.
My tongue has turned
to water – and
I am a weak master
that keeps it there.