Literature
On Eloquence
I used to believe I was eloquent
but only while the words
were inside my head, tumbling about,
grazing the skies of my inner world.
Coming out they stumbled into a strange place,
not knowing how to tread and thread;
folding into strange shapes and knots
not suitable for linearity.
Written on a surface they line up well enough
arranged in neat stacks and rows,
escaping the confining dimension of time
by flattening out all the parallel pockets of space-time.
My hands are more eloquent,
able to add the dimension of shapes and colours,
speaking in crystal shards and strange crosshatched riddles,
and pouring my strange mental vision into shimme
