Words are the sex of language.
Lingering, rolling, lengthy, and sprawling
on sheets of fine parchment;
crisp linen to our ears.
Sounding, resounding, they grab, pounding
blood through our veins, and make us come,
Expressive is the food that staves.
Spoken, linking, feeling and evocatively
touching despite space and pauses
to savour thought and consumption.
The weight of the message, deep and penetrative,
is soaked up by an avid audience till she comes,
Ravenous appetites devour the sensation;
indelibly we mould the flesh on flesh,
inked and strung together.
In our minds, soft murmurings of imagination
wrestle, tumble and fall into place
from words we receive as we read and come,