So many nicks,
Accumulate like bites,
The tiny pricks,
That draw a storied line,
The fallen licks,
That marble hands in time,

The velvet and affronted red,
That calls to me about the dead,
About the day that I should go,
So humbly live with this I know:
I never truly see it as it is,
But hardly glimpse upon the fate of all and pray,
Lord would I truly see and humbly live.

Warm jumper on a windswept day,
So cold...
Just right...
Then boiling like a jolly frog,
On and on and off again,
Like all its bumbling rolls and seams,
It's fastened bumps and stretchy sleeves,
Go hot then cold then just quite right,
It pokes a tongue pink at the wind,
No sweeping casts it's warm embrace away.

Dancing with my many words,
Words I borrowed,
Words I'm told and read aloud,
Words I'm given forge and smith,
So rich a language,
To smack into shape,
And to convey so many thoughts,
With dancing words I will.