My words were draped upon firm postings;
Truth bore them well, so I thought.
They were to be the line anchoring our thoughts together.
But sounds rebelled, and snarled at a sticking place –
Communication, that rare sighting,
rather than coiling heart to heart,
tied itself up in knots.
Loops as holding hangers gnarled, and wove
a meaning unintended.
Now whose end is whose?
Where do I begin and you end?
Who is left holding the frayed edge,
and who is the dangling participle?
If you cannot catch my drift
I will float away,
un-anchored and un-caught,
my heart unheard,