Words Are Surrender

Words are surrender. The airing of emotions no longer capable of physical flight. I write because I cannot fly. A sparrow flaps its wings, but I am bound to the earth. Words are a white flag. Strung up on a high hill. The victim of the mob.

Words are memory. The fading vision of days buried in the brain's decay. I write because I cannot step back. A dancer moves in reverse, but my feet are mired in the moment. Words are old pictures. In a moth eaten album. Dog-eared and torn.

Words are slumber. The yawn of tired feet and aching hearts and empty arms. I write because I cannot kill. Macbeth could murder sleep, but I am at the other end of the knife. Words are eyes tightly shut. Against the noonday sun. Against the midnight moon.

Words are death and dying. The eulogy of faith unrewarded and debts unpaid. I write because I cannot live. A baby takes a breath, but my lungs are clogged with day to day. Words are clots of clay. Striking the plow blade. Rocks in the soil.