Words are a blameless hum
Language is insufficient ultimately
Flowers of through that float
With petals of fluff and wings of air
The thread, that has no needle
Laughter, that has no conclusion
Words are the mischief of myth
A whistle that imitates a bird
Knots of identity that do not fit quite right
Words zigzag and often hurt
And dream of something perhaps unreal
An expedition with no end
Only stories to relate us to the wild
Words defy topography, mask intent
There are no end-time mnemonics for alphabets
They cling to our duality and separate
You from me, us from the universe –
I pity the poets who can only taste
Their own subtle liquor in one language
I for one, am a poor translator of the human soul.
Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Unikorn-412093929
Reblogged this on Emberyn's Collection of Neat Stuff and commented:
Never ever fails.
I close my eyes,
Great first four lines. Love the last sentence. Definition of art.
Thanks Thomas, poems about language continue to be my special topic of choice.