The Shackled Pen
An obvious mutiny of words
have been strung together as pearls
loose upon the twineŚ
flung wide across the heavens.
Pluck them from the space
between our mouths; tiny moons,
dim and dwindling in their
capacity to effect genuine tides.
Maybe your lips, dead as tomes,
flap their pages with the placidity
of dead letters; hanging slack
amidst the stark shackles that bind them.
Here lies a dying breed.