Sound is impossible, and sense beyond
The pale. I cannot speak the way I feel.
To tell you Montague I am too fond
Seems somehow disconnected from the real,
And yet more true than I would be myself.
I have no words except for those I borrow,
Taking the books at random from the shelf
Only to put them back up there tomorrow
Possibly unread. To tell you more
Could swell your head, so maybe I'll shut up.
But I have tried so many times before
And cannot leave the drink inside the cup.
I'll talk, but lose the meaning in the words,
Until I'm chirping like the evening birds.
No comments:
Post a Comment