I have lost more words than I have yet found;
Lexicons that shift like tectonic plates
Consuming swathes of text as magma sates,
Buried in heat like echoes underground.
Fickle attentions savagely forget
That which falls outside the memories reach:
A wave that crashes with no sight of beach
Or a fish cut in twain by the mind's net.
What it is I hope to say slips like smoke
Twixt clumsy fingertips that hope to grasp,
But fumbles as one would with jewelry clasp-
A wicked confusion that begs not be spoke.
Yet speaking would be the death of ache,
But, lacking proper language, should one speak?
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