If there was mass

to the words we have spoken,

we would see them laying

upon the ground.

Cold, stiff and unrelenting, 

while we circled around, sniffing; 

the metallic tang of blood in the air.

How much space would they swallow

if they had volume?

Could we move them, scale them;

roll them away?

As we try to make our way through them, 

they stick to our feet. 

Behind us they follow,

like a shadow strengthened. 

And what of speed?

Your tongue like the string of a bow 

arches backwards, to fling from your mouth

choice syllables.

Large, dense, and tar-black,

that stick to the skin and burn. 

I know of nothing else, that,

in the same moment, can be as hot as it is cold.

Later,

after the blood-lust is past,

strewn around are the remnants of this battle.

Discombobulated words, gutted, bleeding letters

going through the motions of their last palpitations 

Wielding the last vestiges of their power

before the greyness of their death sets in. 

Should we light a fire, consecrate this ground?

Offer flowers, incense, and betel nuts

to help them cross over.

We let them go. 

But, for all that is lost, 

something is gained.

Unobserved, as we unite,

to rebuild, repair

a spore, from words passed

attaches to the backs of our heels.