dead language

the atmosphere is filled with dead language,

looking for lips to speak it.

not surefire phrases 

that pass as cliches, 

but more likely, 

road-warn remarks

that one would have had to have driven 

in their travel-past, 

as recollection does that commemorative task.

sure, sounds is first heard

but then interpreted as words spoken,

like launched from another human's mouth.

not essentially true 

but believed to be so.

as the hear of it, confirms.

it may be an uptick of sensibility, 

born out of false claims

but with a carriage 

that dignifies and then thought provokes.

breath, giving life to the sound of it.

dead language still passes the audio test.

I don't recall any more

what makes it heart rendering.

maybe dancing barefoot as meaning is it.

I could be refuse in a dumpster

but I still believe in human contact.

tactile or auditory saves my soul.

I can work with dead language

because I believe in fore-life and after life.

I can live as a tool

and still become the inspiration of a retool. 

every word is braided rope

to the grasp of my listening.

I come from a lifetime as a weaver.

fiber has emotional strength.

I can confirm your being 

just by the touch of my attention.

we all have net worth for each other.

pathos maybe a necessity of knots,

working for each others' personal evolution.

dead language may have its throat cut.

earnestness may have lost its pitch and carry.

meaning may be penniless,

but we are all made of sound.

sound that defies apparency 

and victimhood's solemn demands.

I hear with heart-ears

as if a single string on a harp

that silently hardly ever gets played

but is sill choir-bound as the instrument itself.

dead language speaks a deeper truth,

where my work is to swim the dankness

of its ocean-filled dark sky

and find that singular-flame's blue, 

down and almost out

and breathe it's eternity as mended.

dead language is always embraceable 

just by one's light-heartedness . . .