For some, language is an art
Approached quickly and smart
Used facilely and discarded
Never to be taken to heart
For some, language is a struggle
Words fall apart and appear as a mumble
A hard field to till
These words that will not spill
Yet there exists a word that finds its place
Not in poet's work or hardy face
Not to be spoken by any tongue of man
Even when the thought demands
Staring into eyes so clear and deep
Holding warmth in arms ready to sleep
A word that comes to tip of tongue
Then falls away before 'tis sung
Then what is this fateful word
That even when never spoken is heard
A word kept trapped as the white dove
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