Monday, May 13, 2013

When words wash

Words wash wasteful, wistfully
across the heart's divide,
and scour with foaming purpose,
the truth they could provide.
Then can I see slow cleansing,
of what I would confide,
and know that substance is erased;
that what was offered, dies.
How empty are those vehicles,
of meaning and intent,
when prejudice rends hollow,
the messages I sent.

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