Paisley Swallows

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