Haven't I said once before
that My Words are not a chore,
My Phrases have no complex meter,
my Words no rhythm.
Quick stacatto beats
to then fall back and slow, and wait, just mello, and sit
Upon your ear, and slow, and wait,
Like moving through moleasses in January while
being attacked by bees.
My Words are not powerfull or Strong!
Mountains do not tremble(i cannot even stir a thimble)
My Words seem like wind; gentle breezes
(not harsh sneezes) that softly ripple a lake
Preventing stagnate thought
to Die and accumulate,
MY Words hold no Clout,
No discernment made throughout
(notions You will not Hear) and
yet, My Voice does not disappear,
Because Words never Die,
They Soar up on High.
Words Never Die.
They take Root and flourish, sprouting as seeds,
Bespoken from My mouth to fall and become Mighty trees.
Growing as Oak and Sycamore, growing HigherHigher, Evermore!
Showing gravity who's boss.
My Words are My Words;
and Yours can be the same.
(Because Words never Die.)
They Grow Wings-And Fly!