Words are my addiction; sometimes soft:
a butterfly and sound of trees, or
scent of snow — But
words are often harsher,
metals, minerals the kind you forge for war:
the rat-ta-ta from trenches,
daggers, venom, agent orange,
bombs and buzzards.
And afterwards the words are grey:
as morgues, the thistle and a silence of the birds,
it’s dusk, it’s mud and rain. But still
the worlds are my addiction. Warm or cold
but never tepid.
That’s why my words are
weapons, comfort and existence.
At toads Magaly wants us to write a poem that explores one or three (even thirteen) things you believe words can do for you and others. I will also link up to Poetry Pantry tomorrow morning.
January 27, 2018