Thursday, July 26, 2012

This Word

It used to be a good word, a poet's tool 
For stitching truths together. I started writing
Because I thought words were free
But don't spend them willy-nilly
Or like this word, they will turn
To sawdust in your mouth, a sound
Signifying nothing but a generation's
Inherited uncertainty.

written while walking home from the bus stop on 25 July, 2012

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