Words Wash up on Listener’s Shore

Words spill from hot mouths,

White smoke rolls, over talk,

that is heated,

Ugly green worms,

fall from invisible clouds,

in twisted slime,

roll into ears,

Tiny eggs,

made of twisted letters

soon rot, within the mind.

The red dripping blood,

falls like spilled paint,

from the sharpened tip,

of the silver tongue.

Words, are but loaded boats

that carry cargo through air,

Why is the speaker, often in denial,

about the goods, shipped to the listener?

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

 

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