, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 languages untouched

lest I be
some other me
and falter in my words –
gathered now
as broken verse to rhyme
else form concede
my soul to write
voices none can hear
of passions –
but a moment
almost mine

suffer me the limits
of a language
not my own
curs’ed dictionary
to repeal –
as witness
to my longing
meanings ne’er the same
lines constrained
forgotten not
to feel –

the blue
within the sorrow
e’er soft convey
the beauty of a kiss
would grey
the storm remember
smoke above the pines
– eyes the shade of rain
a morning mist

helpless pen
to struggle
where words – so few
as part of me
a purpose undefined
by counted lines
or breaths between
the living and the tell –
a poem
I’m becoming
without a thought
for rhyme

. . .