words cannot capture the frill of fungi on a creaking tree
words cannot give me the sinew of a blue beech, the feel of it beneath bare hands and feet
words cannot sing the same way a strong wind can, roaring through the forest above you and
streaming through your hair and reddening your cheeks and ears and thighs,
making you feel so, so alive
so alive.
words are lies because everything else is truth,
life is truth, and birdsong and the wind and trees are truth,
and words strain and stretch and reach for it but they cannot catch it,
it is all lightness and touch and the
shine of raindrops misting on your eyelashes,
and words cannot escape their slow heavy-footed thoughts that
pool around them like the shadows of velvet drapes,
all they can hold are hazy too-sweet honey memories, a hint of the smell of rain
and pollen and green things, but no more
not enough to satisfy, all it does is leave you wanting more
words have a magic of their own, but it is not life -
they are too full of other things to have that.
I look to words to teach me other people's memories of remembered sight
I ask for words to help me untangle hearts and give a rhythm to my jumbled thoughts, all jostling
wants and needs and
wishes
I wade through words because they make me look at things and see other things,
they tell of a future and give me hope.
But like faeries, I cannot trust them, cannot
trust myself with too much of them, or I will be lulled by their heavy wishes into thinking they
have attained what they cannot, for it is a different thing to merely live than
be alive, and
words are made of want,
the clutching need to hold what cannot be pinned down,
and I do not need to pine when I can lift my eyes and see and feel and be.
Points: 54
Reviews: 34
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