If words were a waltz

on a page of this stage,

men might linger on language,

and languish the age

as each tip of the heel,

with each click of the tongue,

renders syllables spoken

or broken, as sung.

Where each note is a blot

bleeding thoughts into strings,

when the spots we call words

are the birds bouncing wings,

in the dance we call breath,

by a gesture of speech,

when the throats sending quotes learn the motions they teach.

If words were a waltz,

we might cherish the sound,

of finding our footing in losing our ground.

For in rhythms we find, that words give as they take

when sentences reason for structures they break.

-Amy Struthers

(Image by Frankie Cordoba)