All the world’s layers are in our throats,
Hoarse with words, spoken way too often
With proper emphasis, some letters said
With our teeth pressed and eyes closed.
Our fingers are clenched for good effect.
Our body is distorted with much emotion.
Let us, for a change, feel the damn thing,
Before words, without flourishes of writing.
We say the cap on our head sports a knot
That looks like a ruined temple on the hill,
Specially when in silhouette against sunset.
As if our saying makes it larger than seeing.
The knot on cap is a mess of wool that bears
Not even a flimsy likeness to ruined temples.