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?