I used to believe I was eloquent
but only while the words
were inside my head, tumbling about,
grazing the skies of my inner world.
Coming out they stumbled into a strange place,
not knowing how to tread and thread;
folding into strange shapes and knots
not suitable for linearity.
Written on a surface they line up well enough
arranged in neat stacks and rows,
escaping the confining dimension of time
by flattening out all the parallel pockets of space-time.
My hands are more eloquent,
able to add the dimension of shapes and colours,
speaking in crystal shards and strange crosshatched riddles,
and pouring my strange mental vision into shimmering fields of paint.
The connection between thought and soul and fingertips
– a strange one, multilayered, of nondimensional facets –
will whisper in rainy nights
of electric storms and forest wanderers.