I am solid, but my lips...
They are writhing, flowing, alive.
I am to create,
To breathe life into the death
Pervading my world.
But I am still.
Mouths create words, create phrases,
Create hurt and confusion and sorrow.
Mouths create melodies, create rivers
Of flowing emotion.
But is that life, when even your heart
Is still?
There is no beat of a drum,
Not even a dwindling thrum.
Does that still allow for creation?
Movement is an issue;
I am cumbersome.
I am frail.
Am I still able to tinker life anew?
Lungs do not inflate or release.
No, they are frozen in time
As though even the clocks are still.
But words light up a fire,
Light up imagination,
Light up a revolution.
Words create life.
Even if all is still,
Life can live.