is it the words, those particular words;
or is it the voice, that particular voice
conveying those particular words? was
it always this way: that longing way back
in the shadows of one’s soul, and its sweet
sad origin anonymous until
one day a certain voice, those certain words,
and life explodes in metamorphosis
senses heighten, time expands and contracts
to a heartbeat in echo to a second
heart no matter mere physical distance . . .
sometimes with a look it begins, sometimes
with a deed or word it begins, but always
somehow it ends in storms or calm of words.
David M Pitchford
2 Dec 2011