what are words but lines and curves that we attribute meaning to
tell me, how can i encompass the screaming of my bleeding heart in lines
tell me, muse, how curves project the shattered song of my tired eyes
tell me how i can manifest myself through dashes
and what are lines but minuscule dots programmed by a distant man to, on command, darken in a series of patterns
what are curves but ink staining the fibers of a tree's peeling skin that breaks off of her with a protesting crack
whose pupils are bringing in the light of my darkness
and what is my breath in the dead of night but an exhale among thousands from beasts and birds alike
and who am i but a bag of blood and a coffin full of bones
and what is this but a jumble of lines and curves
of dots and dashes and clouds and grasses
of whistling glass and singing stones
of all that laughs
of all that moans
YOU ARE READING
inaurata lingua
Poetrybook two. stars pour from a golden mouth ink drips from a bleeding tongue
