Facile diction, which we let
roil us, guileless and seducing into
the lull of educate clamour
which escape the tenuous grasp of our own meaning.
We never say what we mean,
if we can help it.
Or it can help us.
These words slip past us, unaware,
leering in the meaning the make from themselves
our unchoices in their choosing, to let them
what a word might mean if unsaid.
Once having written we have not spoken,
hedged in by our own conscience of debt undetermined to the endless chatter which undermines our self-authenticating surface for the reward
of the literate,
the arcane—which is to say:
while marginalia, ever our adversary,
assumes a knightly form to throw
the sacred javelin into our monstrous, speaking jaws,
and strangle us in the fire of our words.
They turn on us, these rhythms and sounds,
savage and deadly,
these burning tongues of sacred fire,
doing, doing, doing, and we tossed on the tempest of our own malice undiscerning, to hedge the void
in with knots and scratches and spaces and words,
unable to read the words unending, and distancing
the words we’ve sworn against
from the words we speak.
And yet in the silence and the ending,
when all is lost under her shadow, endless,
and even music itself has ceased to speak,
it is these, our feeble defences,
jot and tittle,
which shall not pass away.