This arrangement eludes me,
so alike that bone-china trickle of
sand though the pelvis
of an hourglass prison
that I find myself baffled,
unable to divine the exact location of each word –
where each one lives before
they are so rudely plucked into inky existence,
killed and pinned to a page for the world to read;
and then, the perfect assymmetry of it all –
to place each syllable
with sniper precision into a verse
into a shape, filling a silhouette,
blossoming, flowerlike, delicate
and above all else, natural
as double helixes and the very marrow of life.

My thoughts are cold-fingered
clumsy as they fumble with the clasp
these intricate pieces that should, can, will
fit with resounding satisfaction, if only,
if only, one knows
just how to fasten it all together.
With these fleeting emotions,
fluttering, insubstantial and
transcendental in their haze of uncertainty
I am unsure of my purpose
struck silent as I search for the right sound,
unable to capture that which I fail to recognize.

And still
I reach again for the tangled yarn of my tongue
that I may set it straight and
dye it multicoloured and brilliant;
that I may set it alight
almost too bright for mere paper to hold
and perhaps, somehow, someday,
tell you just how I feel
and why it matters.

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