“Words”
My words begin to die
the moment I set them free,
tumbling from chapped lips like
broken acrobats;
the carpet is thick with their
skeletal remains.
Or maybe they were already dying
before I spoke. Maybe the sounds we make
are just the death rattles of ideas
that began to decay years earlier,
in the bubbling cauldron of a childhood mind.
Maybe all thoughts must end
to become words. Maybe we are haunted
by the ghosts of dreams we can never vocalize
in time.
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