Tongue-tied
Analogies
are a poor substitute for actuality,
as
the dream-life is a poor substitute for Reality.
I’m
coming to the end of descriptions,
writing
poems few will ever read.
As
I fade into singularity and eccentricity,
words
become clumsy under my fingers,
more
ambiguous, less precise.
Not
from a lack of vocabulary
but
a lack of Truth, a tongue-tied lack of God.
I’m
chasing down my own death,
after
which my insufficience
will
return me yet again to the quest.
O
child of God, listen carefully to the silence
you keep trying to
fill with words.
you keep trying to fill with words.
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