The Pouring

Some part of you inside opens up
and pours words out like a waterfall.
Like a tap. And they splatter on the page
not like that. Not like tears. Though sometimes
you still cry. Not like the bitter patter of pain,
but like wine from a decanter. Or spring water
from some ancient rock. From a jug with a lip.
So that the words pour in a liquid cord of beauty.
and begin to take some shape or form that makes
a little bit of sense.

But they collapse at the slightest touch.
Being so fluid and poured from the jug of your heart
they are displaced by any form or weight that is brought to bear
or interrupts their pouring. And you wonder, where do they go?
What dry lake bed holds the liquid cord of beauty? Into
whose cup does the water descend? This you will never know.
Only let the words pour, when and where they may. Do not
worry about wasting them. Only fear that they remain unwritten.
That they go unspoken. That they dont get poured.