Words. Words. Words. A delicacy of the tongue, twisting in wave-like fluidity.
When one does not speak, calm meets with the ocean bed.
And as the moon has her fill, so do to the burden of our thundering thoughts.
For the thoughts come before the storm,
And the words disturb a ship doomed for descent.
Whatever peace there had been, now flings out into the sea.
In linguistic abuse, the sirens feed.
Well beyond the night,
The clouds eventuate for luminescence.
Light to atone the damage, past and present.
Words flow in, like a river to the sea, to patchwork a decimated vessel.
Here the horizon awaits in splendor,
Felt in junction with the sways of gentle caress.
How harsh and beautiful words can be.