Tuckled tummy, tickled Army in the pit, had you like a baby with the giggles. Syllable’s burping along, not a care in the world behind her, trusting the jump from one line to the next, where Sentence falls heavy into Paragraphs without chutes, landing where they find you receptive between undefined margins, or past the pages of lonely glory, stained with black and blue tears, ink of humanity, that floods the Dam with your recycled stories and deferred dreams that keep you up at day, only to enslave you between vices and devices in the mischievous night, till Exclamation finds you, makes his point, and steals you for the last dance before he lays you down, down, way down into the solitary confusion, with rambling cap-locked letters in retaliation, but your desire for revenge grows up to be meaningless when Death reminds you of the futility of your Verbs and their stance. Sticks and Stones have better uses than breaking bones, like pegging Tents to shelter Words that matter when the cold, hard truth, leads you to the edge of abandon, but doesn’t desert you and your insignificance in the eyes of your water mirrored reflection. Yet Words will never hurt, they say. And hurts were never merely Words we know. Words dance because we dance.

Stutter man mutters something. Mumbles the rolling rhymes of a half sober, tongue tied escape Artist, moving curses and prayers with his lips across a tightrope between voluptuous language and the blank page. And Words lie because we lie, not in a bed made for two to Tango. The Tango is blacker than you were taught, but Trust is a dark Art that doesn’t know its Master when the call is foreign, and lost too far in the deep Forest of a Verse that Punctuation can’t tame, as surely as Lovers know each other best in the mutual silence of solace, where Words only get in the way of the dance.