| aa |
Talk is a phobic reaction.
How do I pretend I'm alive?
Interior babble never ceases,
Revents rip our thoughts to pieces,
Tethering inchoate truth in jive.
Yestering yearnings feelings fraction.
No love but requires redaction,
Interning whatever thoughts cannot shrive.
No word but a torrent releases,
Eroding the language talk will survive.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
