Poetry

The ethical dilemma,
and chaste abscenity,
were the game changers.
 
Vowel syncope was making it easier.
 
Let the most vulnerable
lie still. A pseudowar of words
is going to start.
 
A blast of vocabulary,
some smothering of smells,
will make the jaws, drop soundlessly.
 
And many would not
breath easily. It was catastrophe.
 
The language convulses.
In jungle of gatherings
there was no pond.
 
I was still searching, the inflection.
The creative touch.