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Poem

That one lost their tongue
somewhere along the way
long ago, the sound,
doesn’t come out the same
anymore, so they roll it up 
like a carpet containing 
a nakedly dead body
of blunt words 
like unplucked violins
untuned to how it all 
really works 
begging to be heard,
and the flowery prose, 
purple and bruised 
like over-ripe fruit
teeth rottingly sugary sweet, 
is now seen 
day-in-and-night-out,
struggling with ease 
way too much 
like madness overgrown, 
the dense overgrowth 
of language unspoke
hides glittering gems 
blushing shamefully
more exquisite than 
the now daily averies
all penned in babel
that flow in glass jarring
anticipated patterns 
of suffocating 
paisley prose,
the simple beauty
in the plainly spoke,
never again 
to be seen nor heard,
the mercurial metaphors
birdfeed scattered
to the begging migrations
of petulant bluebirds
naughty nightingales 
honey trapping 
wet-beaked hummingbirds 
all beating hearts
with their wild wind flapping,
tossing sticks and stones 
to those tongue thirsty 
kiss lapping, lap dancing 
love parched, gargling
swallows





Candide Diderot. ‘24

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