I think that we may slowly be
being poisoned by an absence of good words.
So many adjectives and such
little time to untangle them.
When does a tale tell itself?
A tail follows, by design.
Do you hear the words when you read them?
Are they pretty?
Do they feel right?
Do you feel?
Is it such a terrible thing to find beauty everywhere?
Why did I have to hate so much before?
Why have I been so poisonous?
