I swore never to give my words away like blossoms in the spring.
Yet, I marvel at all the words I’d gather,
arrange for you in artful, elegant bouquets.
I’ve keloid locks where my words are stored.
I possess not the oils to soften those locks,
Trapping my words deep in their vault,
My words may never know freedom.
Yet, I find myself streaming petals of words for you
In hazy, lazy patterns,
Knowing you have the wisdom, the soul
To read my words much like braille—
A code of sorts–
So you can hear and know,
All my words bestow.