The Unbinding of a Logophile
What a childish thing to do,
to have so many colours in your dreams.
The moment I started speaking,
I stopped thinking.
And the words came before me.
They greeted me with a bow.
Oh, how regal I thought they were.
But the cape was torn,
withered with the betrayals of time.
Dirt caked on my skin.
Little patterns dried in place.
the words were caked with dirt.
Little patterns etched into the earth,
that buried me alive.