Pangea

They stripped my words; peeled off the letters like scantily clad articles of clothing. Augmenting my speech naked as nude similes caress the erogenous vowels of vocabulary, stealing my vivid desire for breath. I gasp. I-O-U nothing except for a continental reminder that our consonants are constantly drifting but I know that if Pa-n-Gea got back together again we could have Pangea. I’m sorry son but Pa-n-Gea were just drifting. Our relationship was malnourished by a lack of vowel intimacy. I-O-U everything a father should provide. Now the words we speak get washed along the crimson tides, tying my vicarious solidarity into a vexed knot. Squeeze my metaphorical origami conundrum into a glass bottle and throw it into a calypso ocean and hope the message will find its destiny. My destiny resides in an oasis where I can swim freely among the abstract and dry my surfaces with the porous pages of the dictionary, word. Pages bonded by voice and if voice be the measure of change, let my words sit in your palms so you can feel the weight of the world. There is no scale except for the hands of understanding that can measure change. Though my hands callused from the attempts to break loose these chains, I’ve gained a new understanding of change and arranged it into syllables. The pen is my instrument orchestrating symphonic harmonies that glide mellifluously through consciousness.