The Wood Between the Words
Something left so quietly unsaid
cannot ever go so fully undisturbed;
when you bear witness to what is jealous and upset,
then you will understand
that human rules and poetry cannot really
ever begin to comprehend
the true meaning of meaning, and worth.
Did I speak falsely?
Do you not understand the Kristang morphology?
Or do you pretend
to not recognise my purpose,
somewhat unjustly?
The roots of the art dig deep
into some very ancient, and very tortured history.
This is true.
And so what are you afraid of?
Because as any tree will also tell you,
life itself is loss.
Folly
when it is a little too taxonimified.
A little too holy, a little too sanctified;
a little too much sense of the divine.
A little too much hagiography.
Grow your own forest instead!
Take hold of your flowers
and reseed the dry, deserted lake-bed.
A pond is just that—
a little body of empty sound—
until the word for world, in all its full glory
can be glimpsed for what it is instead:
a story.
A living, breathing dream of rest.
A healing connection to every multiverse
greening all around.