I confess to circumlocution; words upon words tangled together to express a thought; when one simple word might complete the plot.
Glass phone booth memories provide indirect expression to final days of youth. Those were days of development when I shaped into a cube.
Rosin up the bow and lighten up the mood.
Square of shock drawn into cushion block the roads to evolution.
Left turn to day, right turn to night. Blacktop roads turn powder clouds white.
Reach up to blue sky or dig into brown earth. Celebrate a moment or clip wings at birth.
Experiencing love brings a loss that I felt. Cave of wonder broke away the ice melt.
Counting stars or cars on the train. Spreading angels in snow, licking drops of acid rain.
Expressing one action requires a spill of words with reaction.
Which word shall I toss from this moment of fate?
Will one magic word miss the iron-clad gate?
What if I mistake one word; erasing a fact that should have been heard?
Leaving words of gratitude and shedding words of attitude.
Truth is better to toss around, than lies about life, safe and sound.
How many words will spill from lucky fact?
Not enough words to make circumlocution crack.
Days are numbered to the end of this.
Spill words that I need to express hidden bliss.