Words

What are words anyways ?

Are they but cups in which we attempt to serve others the ocean?

Are they open boxes that we foolishly fill with butterflies?

As we try to define moving, rushing, rivers with the scoop of a bowl

So it can fit in our hands,

one palm-full at a time

The very act of containing

muffles the raging life that once swirled within

Proves there is not enough evidence in our hands to understand

For the cup offered will taste like salty water

and our boxes will quickly be empty with a fleeting flutter

and the river will be only a still puddle

in the effort to pass her to you

Contained

in each one of these symbolic characters lays the smaller pieces of something so much more

deeper than six letters can ever go

six letters that are merely tips of ice burgs to negotiate around

Still, we search for all the right ones

pour mountains of salt in undersized containers to hand over the table

leaving piles upon our laps to pickle our skin

With the missing moisture we go ahead

color a picture of heaven with our box of 72 crayons

but I hope you don’t believe that heaven can be recreated with 72 crayons

or that every sentence we count in our heads

dials the same phone number

In fact, they’re listening to you right now

Wondering what you meant by that violet blue and sienna brown you decided to use

in your venture to cram every texture and dimension

every emotion, sight, sound, and smell

every memory and well within you

into the 5 minutes they had to listen

and the 38 lines you decided to say

And all I can do is laugh

at my own futile attempts

to squeeze the deluged into a cup.