So much left unsaid.

So much left unsaid.

The words

I long to use

Never leave my head.

They roll around,

Forming, storming.

Turning on themselves,

Collapsing,

Self referencing.

Lost in translation

They become redundant

Before being uttered.

Light and airy phrases,

Drift on butterfly wings,

Gently fluttered,

Like pennants

In a soft breeze,

Before the heat of battle,

When for parsimony,

And peace of mind,

I often find,

It will only be

Those words, most prudent,

That are heard.

And the origin

Of my thought,

The simple gleaning

Of meaning,

Is waylaid, with

Sickening regularity.

A stumble and stutter,

A tongue rolled in butter,

When finally spoken,

As a token,

A term of affection,

They tumble out.

A chocolate box

Confection,

A picture postcard

Selection.

Never quite

Meeting expectation.

The meaning

Obscured

In obfuscation.

A desperate

Search for clarity

Of thought.

That in truth can

Come to nought,

If in a rush

To achieve a goal,

The words I find

While fine, and whole,

Have lost their heart,

Mislaid their soul.