For we remain strangers in faces,
We can only grow passion for words --
Each of us a lyricist, a confessional poet,
Spring of sound
In the Charity Ward
Where you take nap-deaths,
White blanket spreading by itself
Over your silence.
You are my dialect
Spoken like a doctor's prescription
Despite growing this somaesthesia
Of the unfamiliar
For we understand
No matter how we give
Different meanings to the same word.
You have stained the wall with wings
Through stories spoken --
Anyone who leans against it
Transforms into an angel
Of your delirium.
The same wall
That opens like wide rewinding frames
Into which we stare deeply,
Losing touch.
You search for words
Under the white blanket.
Though it brings you
Closer to leaving,
Holding the ticket
To the land unfound
By any searching tree-root,
The words are not there --
Even they have to breathe
To survive.
