She Is Nice

This prose, a shipwreck... Barnacled and long forgot at the bottom of a lonely sea. This song, a rusted railcar... alone 'n fallen down a d h i c t beside a siding at the edge of a once-factory-town. These words, an underfed pack mule... high packed and piled with 'needs' and wobbly-leggedly hoofing down a screeway, knees buckling backwards. The words I choose can't bear the feelings i hoist upon, i strap to them but i persist and enlist whatever i can write and stuff it full of my feelings and send it, in my blind lover's hope, off to you. Hoping only that some small sense of what i'd packed finds you where you are. A world away from my heart. It is my only cruelty to weigh down, to insult these Words. To charge them with my heart's effulgencies. I am kinder than i am to these words. I am kinder than i am to these words.