I just learned a brand-new language called thought
in which words stay stuck in the head until
you know that no one is around to rot
your word's meanings with their issues, mental:
The definition of language is like
a vase of flowers, or some fresh coffee:
the aura, the fragrance must always strike
the nose before one can approve of me:
I am lost without language, but without
it I must go, until I kill my old thoughts,
uproot them like weeds, replace them (no doubt)
with fresher flowers, placed in colored pots:
In the meanwhile, I'll throw rocks at the sea;
they will skip the words between you and me.
urbansonnets 