I have found
That we are plenty different, I
Have learnt to store words in my lungs
Dwelling with the air I inhale
Though sullen and quite heavy with
Something akin to guilt
I have found that the grapes of soberness
Grew and spread in my chest
Though with whiffs of melancholia
To be loved by a master of words is to carry
The weight of their broken vanity, their sharpness
Disarming vulnerability
Cornered to a wall by the swords of pathos
You
Are danger.
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