Slabs

I write in slabs. Grey. Square. Stone. They work so well. Work as they’re meant to Side by side. Line them up in rows. Two by two. Four by Four. Eight by eight. My words multiply and bloom, and something spills within them. Tumbling from fingers, cascading out towards shining azure sky. A saffron flower curling verdant through the cracks. An accident of sunlight and rain. And they see it. I see it. I hate it. Cut it out. No good. Pull up the weed. Nice try weed. But not now. No more of that. More slabs.