Words are just the pigment behind a thought,
the brush strokes that smear the world with grains of
intention, fodder for interpretation-
they are the burst of color for flashes of brilliance,
the random ink globules that scatter the paper,
the errant sunburst that illuminates an old photo-
words are visual incarnations of the heart’s ideas and
echoes in the dark,
whispers hushed into the cushy retreat of
our vulnerability,
soft to the touch
like a silken weave brushed against our skin…
that familiarity-
that comfort-
that halo of warmth radiating from a sunset-
words are just the price tag on the car,
the miniscule glint of sunshine on the dew drop that sets it
the flicker of blue moonlight between the December reaches
of the cold, black limbs-
just the pigment-
just the beginning-
just the quiet respite in the eye of the storm…
hidden or expressed,
form a path meant to be sought,
and lived*


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