If I said a million words
and only one was heard
I asked myself if it would be held
at the highest revere
or just rest on a mere
moment of maybe next time
we'll find the time.
I'm not wasting particular
jolts in the atmosphere;
not spending breath worrying
about death; what is deserved
because all I heard
coming from the diamond mines
was the continuous child's cry
and they sparkle on refined fingers
where greed and lust linger.
It is what it is. Take your piece and run
before the questions burn into the sun's
poisoning light where I feel flat, morose;
not reacting how one is supposed to
because I've churned this wheel too long
to care anymore what is right or wrong.
So I twirl in my soft linen dress
feet covered with the dried mud of sadness,
kicking up tears, catching them in my fingers
where my creativity lingers,
and I squeeze them onto the parchment
making sentences with the moist ink
a goblet of words for the masses to drink
leftover remnants of a god child
a reminder that it is possible
to tame the wild.
copyright @ DBV Publishing
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