Words
What is it about words that compel us to speak?
To draw shapes so we might color within the lines,
scribbling on the cosmic page hand-printed animals and dark musings.
What is it about the sound of my voice that soothes,
reassurance I am not alone,
or the sound of yours that titillates,
promises of touch not my own.
How can my muse exist in the vacuum of space,
or is she wearing a mask I’ve yet to lift?
a mask of sound and soft caress,
of pen-stroked pleasure pretending poetry.
Are all my words just cotton-stuffed,
and does that make us clouds or lifeless dolls?
Yet my hand reaches for the crayon to
capture you against the black,
to give my words meaning,
compelling each other in an endless cycle
until there is only sound,
a chorus of noise that sing of you —
that is to say,
of us and the cosmic page,
tool in hand,
fighting against the quiet.
