Tongues of Silver-Gold

　　Death and life are in the power of the tongue

　　I have always fought to speak, grappling with my tongue like an amateur snake charmer. Watch out, it bites. Talking shouldn`t be this hard. My mind pours through books and shelves and massive libraries of thought in mere moments, and even when I try to look a little closer it scrambles, hiding in the shambles. Count to ten—you won`t find me. If I create vast enough vistas and pockets of majesty, my teeth lock me inside, a prison of bone causing my words to echo in the cavern of space. I can`t, I can`t, I can`t. I can`t get the words out. They aren`t slender enough to slip through the bars and rip through the silence of sound.

　　—Boundaries. Walls. Defenses. Borders. Lines. Limits. Fences. Barriers. Ends

　　In death I have found life.

　　Every vivid, starving thought,

　　word and comment, texture and observation,If you come across this story on Amazon, it`s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

　　 song and speech, whisper and murmur

　　and talk are traveling from my head

　　to yours. Instant communication. When

　　was the last time you told a story and the listener

　　felt the burn of sun on your skin, the unique tickle

　　of your hair curtaining your face? Heard the deep,

　　tingling roar of cicadas orchestrating the southern heat

　　of night? Saw your favorite shades of ocean at 7:21pm

　　off the coast of Vigo? My thoughts will talk with yours.

　　We easily cross the boundaries

　　of language—this is no tin can tied

　　to shoe string. If your eyes meet mine,

　　the windows to the soul will open and gossip

　　like neighbors might. Even the dead, among

　　who I mingle, share a word, or millions like dew-drop stars.

　　Like the angels dropped us a line

　　and tongues of silver-gold.