So if you believe it all starts with words
let them coil up and cut through the pieces of haste,
and tremble on a winter night like this. Alone but secure.
They are not ready to be baked beside ashes
that you willingly choose for your every night's sleep.
Light the fire again. Let the trembling melt along dissonances within yourself and beyond.
So what if it ripples through the statis of near luxury ?These are times you don't want rhyme to forge a pattern onto the senses of the page. So there's the play ill-chalked out.
The play is fast but the effects slow
as it slowly seeps into the bones of time and rises to infirmity.
This infirmity is precious and potent. Infirmity right at the face of eternity and it's woes.
To hold back words that they never know how to run. How to live, plead or bow.