Words, words, spun on spindles
and strung through the air, trembling as
bunting in the wind.
Will transposing each shiver to a different time
eliminate the quavers,
or do we need a revolution
or the earth around the sun
to fortify your speech with passion.
But now I suppose the rhythm
is out of key, and the key
is out of lock, and your words
are locked constricted in your chest
tumbling and cantankering towards the coda
and tangled up in knots
the melody hides its intricacy
beneath a fog of dissonance
While the words plod on
to the beat of a clock.
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