Watering can

I feel like I have lost my words, an infallible dulling of the mind. And so I have begun to study them in all their multiplicity, colloquial lilt and marvel at the havoc they wreak when a poet or fire starter dare use them as an aberrant risk, forsaking semantics for depth. It reminds me of why I need fragments of language, so that I can, in all my capacity, describe these feelings pouring out, as if from the spout of a watering can. They  do not flood but pour and drizzle, so many all at once…pristine or murky with sand and soil. I need them, if not my sentience and experiences shall all but melt inside of me, succumbing to forgetfulness. I have to remember, for I am alive and I am here, filling that bottomless watering can and growing lilies, chrysanthemums and African violets to the best of my ability.


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