the prison of words

[artolmaeus]

in all the languages, there is a diction

a dictionary,

and its use makes dictators

and police for incorrect something something

oh for the love of a there there

even in private experience, inner talk

and in the management of feelings

there is the significance of narration

for learning, for understanding, for connection

but there have been moments, of wordless awe

when only the spirit and some internal nature dance

maybe the silence is broken by the use of sounds

without meter or reason, and the face gestures

and the moment is wordless

but in the explanation comes some dilution

in the effort of story, and there is a lack in translation

it's as never as good as the first time, because of the capacity of compare

the ole been there done that

in the sea of names, tags and identity

there has to be some wordless society

some place for the moment of unmetered dance and action

the spinning in the warmth in a green backyard under a warm sun

falling rain upon your skin and face the weight of being wet

getting lost on the ocean, a forest, a field

just the sense of connection from the touch of another's prescence

the surface of a rock, the fear of a lion

the sound of running water, of the wind in the trees

the smell of a rotting carcass, the aroma of a vine full of honeysuckle

but wherever the silent ones are, their meeting hall

moves in the herd of wild unfenced stallions

running across the plains, no fences or breaking

no saddles, no bit, no bridles and no equestrian rules

deep in dark caves with light on chalk drawings done poorly

at the edges of oceans where the foam meets one's feet

never a table, with walls or a seat

wherever they are, well, they're not going to tell

but to break down these things, in catagory and verse

the labor of life is full of invisible chains, and things like

good, bad, better, best, horrible and worst

experience weighs more than words and easier to lift

but in a world full of language, silence is the greatest of gifts