I write,
More than I speak.
I carry my words
In feathers.
They’re silver lined
Like the moon.
I touch them with a
Light hand.
Fearing they might shatter too;
(My framework alike)
My idioms,
Are vague, unclear and appalling.
Sometimes,
Delicate and clumsy.
I sit retaining,
Each term of mine
Back to life.
It would be wrong of me,
To slaughter the one’s
I’m hesitant of.
The courtesy,
And admiration (my) words deserve.
With all my heart and pain
I offer reverence,
To all (my) words;
Intense or plain.
