The organ is not here, only the word.
It feeds the tension, the elasticity, the bark.
There have been motionless tempests,
echoless screams, graves of prosperity.
The word belongs in a sentence
that is yet to be uttered.
The word is part of an unsolved puzzle.
The word is an anguished skeleton, a promise
that has not been kept.
The word is made of meaning, not letters or sounds.
Could it ever be uttered?
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