My every word has come from something else;
Faded, a mimicry of memory.
Tossed about tenors: from French, Saxons, Celts.
Always searching sounds for some symmetry.
Whose words, not mine, pieced together, strung, wound;
Slipped off the tongue, cobbled stones put in place;
Dug down, worn down stones, oblique, jagged, round,
Leaves such a bitter, stale, charred, clichéd taste.
So how can I find for you just one word?
One new, not one evolutionary?
But rather found like some species of bird:
Three winged, double-beaked, five-toed, Canary
To fly and sing from my mouth full of stones,
Where “Love” has lost its marrow, sinews, bones.