Words are lost in the playing field of love.
by Carl A.I.
like loose change
The maggot words that leave my lips
They enter ears, buzzing around brains,
a new housefly of ideas
that you want to kill.
In the spring of passion,
we will all be born as larve.
We will offend and infest.
We will weave
in and out of each other's delicate ideas,
thoughts, and feelings.
Destroying whatever is left of our relationship.