with a posture so unimproved, i sit.
with a name so overused, i stutter.
with a manufactured stare, i wonder.
with a language of the body, i explain.
with a subconscious i can control, i lose.
with a loss, i overact and bundle.
with a dressed-up version of myself, i huddle and bind.
with a wild call out to the woods, i am scared.
with a whistle back at a screech owl, i converse.
and
with a tongue sat firmly to the roof of my mouth, i do not speak freely.
for if i were to and if i do, i am sat in an idle cask of laid iron
and
with a hum into my own ears, my heart flutters.