Wild Roots

Language and laughter are root-bound,
dry licorice
outmoded code, archaic in their dips and arches
there’s no point pontificating, wryness runneth dry when simplicity is an act:
slip one quip under the ruffles of a skirt
to flirt the living dead into roiling rejection

single moments marked in muddy memories
encyclopedic whispers of weak truths tumble
wildly out of rusty lips and onto down-turned ears to trickle
malice past missed points,
cells clinging as they multiply, death rattles
half muted in fat palms
babies playing diplomat in gurgled syllables
what a wimpy time it is to care for the brilliance of words

I will build barriers against this leap from one
punctuality onto another, this series of wilting lily pads afloat on swamp slime
so my light no longer leaves, seeping through branches
at the tops of wild trees
so my searching sunbeams cease to venture ever outward
from one puncture in the time we’ve woven, to a tear along the seam
I will reign in this prolific stream because I see, I fear
it growing dim as it approaches forever some
invisible rim, I will not let go of my whimpering wisdoms
I will promise my glow is kept close
I will slow this screaming heart, toes
woven with the wild roots at the heart of an angel grove
nestled in this ancient basket and
walled in, held steady

I will speak only into my soul so no sound escapes
except the soft sighs that fray the edges of the resounding solitude within

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