birds and birds that are words are made of stone, they are thrown and they fly and can be dropped in a well or a bucket and drop by drop stone by stone bird by bird it fills up until there is no water left. Some words are painted stones, with feathers that are covered in inks and thick brush strokes, and other words are just plain things, rough hewn things that sit in your throat and refuse to be swallowed or spoken, but just hang there, waiting, choking.
Words that choke are words that are wrapped in memories, spirals of memory coils, wrapping around and around, the golden spiral, the nautilus, the perfect divide, the perfect words. These words can only be written out of system, and as your hand brings these words out and onto paper the stone in your throat grinds down, the wings of the stone bird fluttering, wanting to be free. But instead it grinds and grinds and grinds until that word on paper is a perfect memory.
And you can cough up the dust of those thoughts afterwards, and realize, it’s not transcribed perfectly, it never is, it never could be. But you have a bucket full of words at your feet, fluttering and ready to take stone flight into the sky, ready to shadow against the sun and make the world eclipsed and gold blue once again….
because words are like root are like bone are like mirrors are like