Prelude to the Words

They say, the word takes discipline.

Loose fabric erratically woven between my life and yours.

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Could it also be a death sentence?

Litter for the mind…for which there is no cure.

I have haggled with scholars…

and, pillars of a park bench.

I have thrown sticks and stones with menacing dogs…

To find where it is…

my words belong.

The chirping crickets are fading fast in my bedraggled head.

Releasing chaotic composure.

My composition?

Words I had hope to have.

Words I had hope to have said.

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