The poet said not to create
In another language that
Not my own
But every single meaning
Is always so hidden behind
Rusted locks
I can try to either open
Holes or lift and throw
The heaviest of rocks
It won't break…
Open to me alone
Not even a movement.
Not even a crack.
For that i shout using
A strange dry tongue,
In a languid lash
And no kiss coming from
This mouth will deliver
True meaning
However, swallow saliva, sap,
All sapience in no way revealing
I try to breath through a gash.
But, not even a movement.
Not even a crack.
Ah, a squeal is the sound
You might hear in this throat contact
While a phantom pain explodes intruder
Into your soul, deep far
Listen to our mother language.
In confusing new words we do spar
The same different words attack.
In no way a movement…nor the slightest crack.
