what if the it of it
is beyond what meaning offers?
coloration of a canvass of mind
without brush-usage,
the stream passing by,
as tongue-tied but still speaking,
the wind offering breathy hearsay
yet still essentially true,
a what-do-you-make-of-it
from a tree with no limbs,
dessert dunes
that never pose in a completed stance,
feelings that fly up and curse
at language for stealing,
the series of half-lives of conclusions
that occur,
even before their pronouncement
that is days away from being made,
for wanting to be
where summary wanders off
without a meaningful life,
why hurt had a full-blown identity crisis,
even before it's summary had a name.
why feelings are liquid and evaporative
while the words of it turn to stone,
to dirt, into gains of wandering sand.
so, if I am helping you with words,
I am distracting you
from where you need to go.
if my tears are coming out of your eyes
than without knowing,
you understand . . .
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