It is my tongue that is tied
In the most magnificent fashion—
A faultless knot bound by sorcery
Unbeknownst to the kindly folk.
It is that simple organ—the organic
Hymn teller, word speller, thin
Leather organ that I cannot control.
For it seems to possess a subtle fancy
Geared towards forging its own distress—
Diving in the book of my own desire,
It tears the pages, and smartly smiles,
As if it feeds off my displeasure.
It is my tongue, my speech maker,
The word creator within my jaw
That jousts me with incomplete sayings,
And fragments of sentences
Which I always seem to speak.
It plummets me into proven silence,
And shifts my gaze towards my feet,
Which linger well beneath
The metacognitive and battered belfry
That never seems complete.
It is my tongue I would trade,
And return in exchange for
A thousand repeated rambles,
Or at least, a single, settled smile.
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