Oh how the saying makes me sick while excuses, there are not,
Decisions to decisions, word's weaponed from thought.
So, a new turn of phrase; is born within the dark;
words I whispered to myself, a lone,
A Sky-cyphers Scribble-sailing mark.
For the first and only time,
Not of me but you
These writing's wordings weave a web,
of synthesized virtue.
To be spoken allowed to oneself,
read, written or thought,
Of each word that's now misused- their purposes forgot.
examined, explained, investigated my life
As if speech were the blade, written words are the knife.
all of the meaning and every moral, we tether to our mortal coil
Life and it's significance- of time, distilled in transience .
The concept of fate & of destiny, too
Both insinuate journey, the movement through
How, now, can our destinations insue
We'll come Home, its depths, are dreams of blue.
*between the church hymn
And under haiku
It is,
Ravled in deep bules
