Neat little words, ambitiously candid
they fill my room in books of branded
titles and pages, Dickens and Welles,
my library preceeds me:
it positvely swells.
Plays and musicals, rested on piano cases
notes and chords like flowers in vases,
I have so many words, letters and nouns,
rigid creatures that evoke emotions and sounds,
I’ve written a saga, an epic, gothic tragedies
Lovers that clash like titans, awash in stormy seas.
And yet, through my chatter, the lines in between,
all that I write and that I claim to have seen
I know,
that I have nothing, will have nothing
and yet even less to say
only that words curtain all the awkward silences
of my life,
neatly away.
