perhaps it is not about taming

the language, but rather trusting


the mouth of the river; the flow of the mind

is not to be easily tempered. speech


is a construct, an artifact, not an essential

revelation. we are tangled in the weavings


of even our most elegant words. we scratch

at the scabs of our efforts to love one another,


to remake a world. we plot ideas.

the instruments of our glory, intangible,


only to find we arrive and arrive

without end. language is innocent--wordless


we are equally empty. silence? perhaps we think

it would hurt less, but would it scorch even more


to feel the pointlessness and be

ignorant of the music we could make?


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