By J. A. Weymouth
A string of thought that is corrosive and intrusive
Is known to be cruel and enlightening – wide eyed and open armed
There is a colour in its mouth – heavy
If heavy was a colour.
The mouth is thick with words that do not spit
Words in plenty and enchanting
But they hold back.
We forget their feeling – their depth of spirit.
The thought is still there.
It is carried barefoot/homeless over the shoulders as it sinks in
Deep within, straight through that beaten one
Until the alcohol slurps a new idea that then, then it becomes buried.
I was buried
In that dark open eye
Through those listless words
Inside a heavy box
Behind an unchanged mask
Always unchanged and forever.