If but a Difference

What makes one person’s words

worth more than another’s?

Words stacked up

like bricks and mortar,

a wall in a pawn shop,

or a brokers lounge.

Words wrapped in gold foil,

like fine chocolates

that melt sinfully

decadent

on a lusting tongue.

Words that link together,

like the fine bodies

of dragonflies,

reproducing

in the summer evening,

adrift on a song

unheard by all but

the legions of tiny

bodies

that live but an eternity

in a moment.

A word is a number,

in an equation,

lost to time

by someone who

considered it and became

distracted.

When I write a word,

does it become immortal?

Or does it wither and

die

like so many soldiers

lost at sea,

adrift in a notion,

romantic and superfluous,

if but only to the person

they were meant to

rescue

on that one, final

night.

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One comment on “If but a Difference

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