Words

Words, or whatever you wish,
fall slack upon this page.
They've overturned themselves
pouring the unmistakable, the black,
upon springtime snows
like churlish smatterings seeking
the unknown expressions lost within.

Pointless ballpoint pens,
void keys clacking onward,
hazy disillusionment of
     measurable ambiguities,
compression leaving marks on my chest...
I stand at the bottom of an emptied pool.

Blue never looked so isolated,
delineating regulatory spacings.
Please pardon my white legs--
They tast not he freedom of language
     turning leaves like
     unprecedented heat waves.

I fear a recessive winter's eye
peering between two lungs.
Perhaps summer's burn will brown
unlike the scrawling phallus
whose pleasure is permanence
     in symbols
between the mournings.
Do we know best that which
     darkens?
     Keep us white?

Where vibrations soar in unvisualized
     mediums
signification clings to no answers,
like the burdened charring
upon unfettered clouds.
We'll fall in pursuit, hoping
our tools will free us from
     the emptiness.
Thus here we are...
     But from where,
     and with what?

I've stared into the page,
beneath the walls perpendicular to my eyes,
soaking in the emptiness...
until I decided to start with


               Words.