Cumbersome words, black and unwieldy,
sharp and sticky, they set like cement,
hindering the fluid flow of my progress.
I am aware of the faint murmur of my answer
as it bypasses my senses and emerges fully formed
- tumbling haphazardly from my lips like rain.
And I want to run - full pelt - away from the intensity,
away from the looming insanity, the spitting shadows,
but inertia gone, my body is reluctant to move.
For I fear I may disturb the dense atmosphere,
I am afraid I may finally lose my place on the map. . .
a stray bullet ricocheting off the smoke stained walls.
So I stay put, fixed to the spot, petrified in my place.
Entranced by the slow motion movement of his mouth
as it carefully enunciates the words I never wanted to hear.
Written for the sunday whirl using the words below.
Image - Susannah Bec