Rest

Feb 19 2019

Let the words rest,

the ear, refresh itself.

Like grilled meat, left to cool;

its flavour melding

its slowly yielding flesh.

The mouth-feel of words.

Like a palate cleanser

between entree and dessert.

And the receptive ear

that, in its absence

confabulates sound;

as a prisoner hungers, who is only fed

warm tap-water

a crust of bread.

Ink flows

on plain white paper

in smoothly cursive curves,

in marginalia

and palimpsest

and scrawled cramped inserts.

Liquid, almost frictionless

the script remains in flux;

never truly done,

and offered up to the world

to take as it will.

So I learn by heart

and give it voice.

Words

that break the heavy silence

that has settled in this space,

the stagnant air

we share with every breath.

Like the comforting aroma

of a home-cooked meal

when you first come through the door,

and how soon you stop noticing

in the kitchen's steamy warmth.

Words

left hovering

in insubstantial air,

as sound decays

and resonates

and I listen once again.

The voice inside my head

as no one else can hear it.

The morsels of words

on my forceful tongue

and soft expressive lips.

A taste, a course, a feast,

an ascetic's meagre crumb.