words are a bleak currency
syllables find themselves like silver pennies
jumbled and arranged, rearranged
whisked away and glued together
torn apart, spit on in streets,
determining fates
well i bought you with words
we bargained our positions. a little bit
here, little bit there. we make concessions
one fine day, we will open a bank
to store words of our own
secrets and endearments, fears
among other things
but words can be traded
and as such i will come to lose you
to the solitary glitter of wishes
that lie at the heart of a fountain
What better topic for poetry than what it's made of, words? Words traded, words with such weight, words that cut, words that heal
ReplyDeleteYou took all the words and mixed them and produced a wonderful taste.