I taste these words rolling off the tip of my tongue.
Two, three, maybe even four syllables but they all sound the same.
Like the bitter twist of lime, they never incite nor will they satiate my caramel lust for life.
What if i say them slowly?
Perhaps if i pronounce each syllable with 2 ticks of a needle.
Will my body shudder still with repulsion or fear
when i draw each word out in a tandem of controlled (im)pulses?
Can i swallow the bitter taste faster than i draw them out?
Or will it stoke the fire that boils this malady of madness.
Can i believe for a moment?
That all its recondite meanings
can be tied up in an embroidered pomander.
Will i smell sweetness?
How can i turn my eye away from the sight of the shed of sorries or the slushing sounds of its door.
I keep wondering
till weariness coaxes me to bed
where i lay these words next to my body.
But my hand feels nothing.
Save for the cold emptiness of my linen sheets.
(comment on this poem)