Poetry — 31 March 2012

by

Vivi Rathbon

 

Words are a tool and a trap,
Expression and limitation.

What is the point of using words to express indescribable sentiments?
Confusion converted into prose is just that.

Circling confusion diffracts infinitely.
I look for meaning in the ripples.

I wish I could tell how I felt with a color
It would be bright and deeply saturated hue.
With the weather
It would be temperate and sunny, the air ripe with a tingle of oncoming storm.
With a glance
It would be my fickle-colored eyes open, honest thoughts readable through my irises.
With a sensation
it would be warm and misty, sticky and humid yet comfortably refreshing.
With a fruit
It would be an out of season craving, like watermelon in winter.
With a song
It would be a drawn out crescendo, and I would dance to it.

But all of these would be equally as useless as words. So what’s the point of having conversation?

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