My words,
Are so many things,
Agents of chaos,
Acerbic, despondent, a river,
Of tranquility,
Comforting, reflective, a murmuration
Of starlings, wild and impulsive,
Or like wet paint,
On a thirsty canvas, longing to be,
Touched, to be ordained,
And yet when I stare at the stars,
In your eyes,
I'm parched and,
Heady from their light,
Words can never hope to substitute,
The volumes that we will speak tonight.

Image Courtesy - The Conscious Process