My tongue twists in rapture, Captivated by the banquet of sounds to choose from.

Without doubt, this sundry is a soundboard forced to play only 1-4.

The bouquet for the ear is likened to weeds with the sedentary state of such lush words,

Language once able to surf the sound waves,

Now locked away, only the most mundane words without stigma.

A dream to sing, a boat to float, unsung heroes of our everyday,

Deprived, stifled, snuffed, and sullied, pollution of the 26.

I am a chef in my kingdom of language, poetry allows me to cook.

Recipes made with ingredient families.

Pepper, a parched muted repetition hastened by soft lips,

Cumin, breathing, then taking a cool bath as my tongue flicks its way around in saliva, and

Dill, grabbing a double punch of glottal attack.

Seasoning and spice tamed to perfection, boiling around on my palette.

This is my haven, this is my voice.