Words

Everyone is talking to themselves, and quite frankly,

I’ve grown to enjoy my conversation;

chitchat between the two, while the other emoting low, waiting, and waiting.

He: a bass in the voice has less, and less to say.

As she and her twin: a constant confab of the arrogant seducing caution;

seers whose control in their gaze, reach with decisive desire, so speak with vivid speculation.

 

“Get over yourself”

 

“Out of your head, with your hand into the world”

 

“huh”

 

so I am assured: in the straightening of my stance, my softened intimidation.

And when the three sing in unison,

 

"Good Lord, the things we moan"!


After Grace