Sometimes

sometimes there's a word on the tip of your tongue
heavy and dark and full of promise
stuttering there, trembling, waiting to fall, to be spoken.
sometimes the word is a name, so soft
filled with edges and consonants and gentle vowels
sometimes the word is just a word
simple, delicate, a rose on the edge of the world
about to fall, gravity reaching its slender fingers skyward
to grip and grasp and pull it down
sometimes the word is a vow
a trembling thing, so small, so frail, so weak
but let the seed grow and it will give you pause
and a reason to wake up, in a world of a heartless many
sometimes the word is just a thought
and an endless, formless, sightless terror
nameless and feared, and there will never be enough of us
of the compassionate few, to slay the dragon
sometimes the word is an idea
hiding in plain sight, behind a Guy Fawkes mask
with the endless determination of a madman
sometimes the word has no meaning, because it's been said too often
by the wrong mouths shaping the wrong voices
but...
sometimes the word is said
and the rose falls, to shatter on the pavement, and let the shards fall
and pierce a scream of a name
to chase away the terrors
and make a vow.


(c) 2013