Wednesday, 10 March 2021

Vocab. Storage


Though migraine grips the verbal heart,

The language classifying part,

That stores up libraries or larders,

One strives to lean the word-hunt ladders

Up against the bulging shelving

Harvesting thesaurus entries,

Rummaging for synonyms

Listed in its catalogues

In basic alphabetic order.

Yet the monologue

That chatters, like mad jazz 

That pitter patters, 

Seems to keep some semblance

Of linguistic rhyme and reason,

Round the edges, at the border

Some sense of something more worth noting,

Useful when one’s anecdoting.

Through its swollen vein revealing,

Showing sideways on, imparting,

Some strange aspect, which when spoken

By the twisted lips, tongue stumbling,

From the mangled mind, half broken,

Seems some oddly chained connection,

Interlinked but not by Latin,

Not by root, and not by thinking,

Not by truth or deeper meaning,

Pulled out from the sagging shelf,

Though the steps are weak and rotten,

Tripping, lisping, tumbling, mumbling,

Comprehended on reflection,

Sadly, only by oneself,

Through the aura, pre-pain season, 

Only briefly, then forgotten. 

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