My mind like a churning mill
spun by an unseen wind, will not lie still
for neither I nor you
no matter what we do.
And the product of this place haphazardly
thrown together, tethered by my mouth,
is shipped across the sea,
the space between you and me.
And these words will weather
the storm, the fraying tether
'til foreign language reaches foreign land,
your ears a beach of sand
The wind that turned, the grinding wheel round
The words fumbled, sent abound
makes remnants and remains of what was whole
All unrecognizable
A question of a person, each of us
demanded by the other, who in turn
is equally blurry, equally built of dust.
I think we are all better off taciturn.
Mon Jul 12, 2010 11:29 am