Up and Out

The words,

still climb up

and out,

and I can 

still find,

and phrase them.

Some days,

they curl and weave,

towards a cottage,

by the sea,

covering it with fragrant


roses mostly.


Other days,

they hang,

wilted and spent,

not much left to them,

resembling what they once were:

radiant orange fire blooms,

picked over and used,

for a string of words,

that say it,

but don’t.


Yet still,

they keep on climbing,







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