I devour words.
I hear through my eyes
and see through my ears
and crunch syntaxes
between my teeth.
.
.
I pillage entire centuries
for lost linguistic treasures,
artifacts, one-offs, hapax legomena,
then covetous,
I secret them away,
a dragon with her hoard.
I lock them all up
in the memory hall of my mind.
.
.
I hoard words
random etymologies
fleeting morphologies
.
this ology
that ology
.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
.
Distraught bits of grammar,
once so secure in their purpose,
I pluck from their places,
and they find no solace
in the hungry maw of my mind.
.
I devour them all,
only to spew them forth again,
maybe, if luck sits on my tongue,
and the Gods of language have kissed my lips
recently:
transformed.
.
Words should fear me.
I shall continue better than I’ve begun.
I shall hunt them down;
tease them apart –
my pencil is a spear,
its lead like iron.
This is war after all
and the words are winning.
(by G. Krasskova)
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