We speak words, sorrowful watchers, pulling our sacks, hanging low, sagging low with a dusty grin, on our backs, heaving them along a river.
We seek words, solace and comfort in murky stillness, in the back alleyways of darkness.
We cry words, our eyes bleed as our hearts beat, we are the wisdom lost, the eternal infinity shelved in the void, barren, wooden, locked.
We breathe words, exhale thoughts and dreams as feathers on the breeze, our backs witnesses to grand designs shaped as clouds.
We kill words, children lying in the grass waiting to become something else, something big, something small.
We are words, the shells found along the eroded shores, empty and barren, wooden, hand held voids to frame,
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