i tiptoe through sea-water and porcelain walls
as i carve words into prophecy --
language is my destiny.
sweat lingers on my brow,
a monument to my toil
to keep the ground above my head.
sleep just wanders through me,
as whispered secrets i dare to keep.
i lie in riddles and fantasies,
the hallowed halls of long-dead poets.
i try to seek the maker,
yet what maker can i hide.
sweet drum rhythms, take me home
to the pillars i have known --
body, mind, and wit are rich,
but with not word
not one can stick.












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