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.






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