Inefficient is the only word
I can come up with to describe it;

troubled, redoubled are the lonely words
I must use to call it forth.

Those don’t work well, either.
I’m lost in a mess between them.

If another word works to carry it forward,
let me know soon because

in the plot of things only barely known
I am having difficulty sorting the world out

from right and wrong, true
and false. You know words don’t work

like they used to do. You know
all meaning is suspect. Mostly

I live on feeling, sighing at the vision
brought to me by words

and left on my doorstep,
waiting for me to pick it up,

put it on like a stole or a robe.
I could be king if I did —

that would mean little
to anyone. Instead I live

breathlessly, un-forming
the nature of words like

beauty, freedom, and peace.
They don’t mean that much —

namely everything worthwhile,
large, and endless. Every second there

could be the One. Every feeling
could be the last one I ever feel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T