The words wouldn't give their breath. Soaked.
Immersed. Stranded, stale, not listening to one another. And so he came
to understand the way that subtle code worked. Poetry wasn’t about to
just burst into a sudden flow of thought, no, but rather bless a movement
within the structure of the phrase, breaking, stealing the air. Not
ideas, not an intention, just the way words would stand near each other,
loosening the ends, vibrating more like a
melodic wake of conscience than a stronghold, a desirous atempt to
reach some escaping reflex, always eluding, always fighting to free
itself from a clear logical sense. Words breathing mouth to mouth.
Baffling. Wondrous. Resuscitating, bringing the old corpse of language
back to life. Words freed from instincts, open to godly perspective. New
blood, new movement where sound is flesh, all existent, while meaning
is found useless.
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