Words seem to get in the way tonight. The wrong words. And where there are no words, this silence screams the blood curdling chills of language face down in a roadside ditch. So newly dead the flies of disquieted expectations have not even noted the gruesome occurrence as yet.
The ink in my journal tonight reeks of this death.
It is not fit or noteworthy enough for an obit.
I should not mention its passing.
5 comments:
wow. that poem is absolutely beautiful! i so love the last line:
Plop - splash - plop, the tears fall--
cheers!
Oh, this hurts to read. I know this ditch.
Odessa -
Thanks! Appreciate you stopping by the site. I'll have to check yours out as well.
Michael
Cindy...
It hurt to write as well.
This is absolutely brilliant. I'm stunned, tingly, from reading it.
I used to know a guy who claimed to be inarticulate, then he would thread words together just like this. He never understood his gift. I hope you recognize yours.
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