parallaxis

soft tongued

now i have to use elevated speech or invent

words that will mean what i want to say;

it is not easy, the speech of angels, especially

coming from angels far away from god; the tongue

is a slimy and slippery  stone that hangs

in my throat and waits on the spit of a spirit

to sluice the tumid terms and to seed words

that can twist and pull a tooth from me, blood

cooling my mouth parts and boiling blank

runes out from my heart; maybe a god with

a core of its own will hear my plea these days,

and not feel that need to tear life out; a kind host,

no vengeance-of-the-lord wings whip-cracking,

but one who speaks clearly and makes words

i have never heard. and unclouded words.

flowing cool like blue-chilled milk and i can say

them in likeness, to you. and my breath will be

silvered frost and my speak will save you and

you will know what it means when you hear it;

the meaning you will know when i make my echo.

(mostly words mean less than nothing

now; all are mockeries of sound)

seasofme 181115parallaxis