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I cannot remember what sadness is-

For in it's own words, it takes its toll on humanity.

Lay open to the naked eye,

and it is struck from where it should be.

In our hearts.

Leaks a path on the fingers,

rusts the gears-

There, our nerves twitch-

We misplace our words and scribe them on paper-

They have no meaning,

but to fulfill the hungry throats of audience.



Whatever happened to the poet without a face-

Happened to words that set a broken man free

from even the Devils temptation-

Swoon with sexual want,

well behind the breast and crave more words that mean nothing,

but know all.

Are we but clever interpretations?



Of God? Holy Chasity,

that wet a virgins ears and eyes with a lust less sin.

Clever are the letters that form to break her ignorance

and push her up into the light where we mingle.



We cannot remember what sadness is,

nor smiles

nor love.

Time spent picking them apart and writing of their blueprints.



No

a writer cannot know these things.

We can only take note of how their words make us feel

COMMENTS

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Canislupus
04:14 Mar 05 2012

This has a power beyond he boundary of words. Well done.

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