I love words, and you will love them more. Savor the lettered lines, justify what they are here for.
I believe in love.
I believe in trust and loyalty
and reality and fiction
and proper diction and lead ammunition.
I believe in the worn magic
of all these and those less tragic.
I believe in the printed word,
of fairy tales and short stories
purged onto memory
longing nights eased to sleep.
I believe in it all as human conscience
accepts and denies it.
I believe in nothing that simply
disregards the truth in these concepts
which humanity had bore
and itself has left to rest.
I will believe all this, until you try
to make me believe otherwise.
And maybe thus make me believe,
that I had believed in something
far greater than we.
If ever you break this,
his clever veneer,
put him to tears,
have this done, at least.
Find a small decrepit box,
blow off its dust,
let off some musk,
a purpose will be served, at last.
Cut the hair he had loved so,
curled around his finger,
its scent soon to linger,
donned as black as his woe.
Finally, place in his shards.
On the lid, land a kiss,
the only lips he’ll miss,
and curse inside that box.
Words are the unrequited outcasts of society. Regarded as easy, innocuous, trivial and elementary. As if any simple act of the body can undermine the skill of the hand and wit. That it is unmanly to belt out a line of rhyme, with face and all, tone and pitch, body and soul. I pity their bags of withering bones.
"Actions speak louder than words."
I’m stinging sultry by the stiffening second. Have you ever wrote? Have you ever stayed up for five damning hours in the deafening silence of darkness, in your room, nothing but yourself to have company? Only to write a poem, a story, a prose to your liking? Or maybe to someone you care for? You don’t know the stress, the incessant importuned impaling of your insides clamoring for instant satisfaction because of something you’re having a hard time finding ONE SIMPLE WORD FOR.
What mutiny to the repercussions of humanity. Those lines are there for what reality could not uphold, for it is limited, falling short by the crescendo, leaving a bitter, longing taste at the back of your throat. Which is why you choose the unbridled pulsing of writing it, to have your audience traverse yonder, without reins, to places and feelings not even the world could permit, let alone imagine.
I’m not here to change your opinion, only to balance it. The streaks of black on white fields you see now are at a losing race, though it is not too late to have a change of pace. The endeavor of actions have done their good will, there is no argument there. But to forget the written word… I can’t even utter a metaphor to compare.
And you will walk on life, never really having lived. That is much to be said, why waste the willful wonder of words for the woeful wistfuls of the world?
A fisherman needs a bite once in a while,
if he’s good the patient clouds will give him light
to the clear waters below, peering many times,
many fins and gills, the hook still sways to the tides.
A thug, a nudge, a quiver in the pond may be,
a thousand of those can appease, but not for long.
Do fishermen love to die at the very sea,
where they could not catch a single salty bone?
The Muses traverse in silent delight,
rushing the halls in echoed symphonies.
Halls with liquid walls, pillars of the unfamiliar.
Remember, the curator listens only to good stories.
Gods clamor, toasting sweet ambrosia for the harbingers,
golden harps and strings knitted from lingering souls,
the orchids of Eden bloom—a jealous Demeter,
many a dead man died without one last song.
Heed the choir more than once, but you can’t play them once more.
When the singers begin, oh how Olympus go still,
the deaf hears the moans, bore from the breeze as he grazed the skulls
of the blackened shores, steps away from Hades’ door.