The staggered gait of words are awkward porters of feeling.
I pick apart the prose, scratching it till it becomes verse,
pick at it like a scab till it bleeds from the heart.
I stumble down stairs of sentences and trip over the slightest feeling.
My limbs become tongue tired and I feel ashamed of the feeling for you,
yet you reply to my bumbling admission with delight.
They are feelings that beckon you aloft with liberty, you say. And that
“Knowing is the walk of Heaven; for the highest knowing is almighty”.
I listen to the mastery of your thought as guidance to my step.
Reconciled to an unlike accent, trailing a different inflection,
I offer as I go, the evening’s lunar smile, patterned shadows
that leads you beyond yourself.