I fell, today, into, some words.
Artfully, dancing, together, with eachother.
Pardoned, by a pen.
An illustration, of a life, in a quiet, afternoon museum.
Shards of light, cutting shadows,
where, I, alone...
Still hearing birds, and, mission bells,
but, muted, by the shock of shapes of language.
At first, I thought it was a mistake.
An electronic glitch,
that opened up, a doorway,
into other countries,
other worlds,
and, minds.
A writer's journal...
perhaps, that should be private,
A stranger's gift...
Or, maybe... I've known him, already...
But, who, un~knowing, wrapped me in cinnimon toast, and, butter...
Completely, chained, in coffee, having sex, with cream...
Wishing, that the words, were not on a brightly lit screen,
where, I remain, upright, clothed, not in thick brown, satin,
or in glossy water, sliding with calamity's Christmas gift.
Wishing, that the words, that I was reading,
were in some wine~stained, tattered notebook,
or, carefully laid, into cigar box,
with the smell of leaded pencil.
Truly, now, mesmerized, and,
off to fix a broken bicycle wheel,
in physical, but, tied, if only,
by a French or Cuban coloured string,
to words, written.
A story... Turkish Delight...
My addiction...
My prison...
My passion...
What~which causes me to fall,
into ir~repairable love, and endless, mindless lust...
Always.
Words.
The bath just overflowed.
