It feels the same to tongue and tooth. Just another syllable, slipping from the mouth. Just another word, too bitter or too sweet to not be spat out. The breathless phrasing, the subtle jibes, the saying for the sake of being heard. It is all the same to the meat and machinery, lip and lung and ligature. The mind folds the phrases into their tiny pretty boxes. In the end, the mind always takes the blame.
The snails have taken all but the stem and bloom of the freshly planted marigolds. There is no telling how much damage they will do before they are done. I say nothing, not surprised, not proven right. Some garden and groom, their feeling for growing things clear and resonant, green-thumbs up and so on. I am of the weeds and the wilds, unkempt and resigned to let the world accomplish what it will from my own designs. I spill words, numb and imprecise. As for the green and the seeded, I am always at a loss. I plant a lot and let the world decide. I always try to settle up before closing. Leaving nothing for last call but a tip.
I am always writing in the dark. I am talking out loud, but mostly to myself. I can not help make sense for anyone who overhears. The world works things out one way, minds have their own ideas. There is fact in every flavor, but no accounting for taste. Give it up for God, save a prayer for later, drink one for the darling dead. My hands are empty all the same. I leave these words behind me, doing whatever it is I do. I might stumble, I may smolder, I might seethe and radiate. Every burning isn't for the brightness, every light is not a guide.
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