What were words worth?
In tiny staccato whispers, petulant tones.
A bravado of guffaws,
were words worthy?
Convey they not my heart, my mind,
translate from mental state that which I’d have you know,
Grok, Groot?
But try I do, and syllables drip, and slip, and in spastic play, attempt to guess,
What would I, if I could
in your heart and slumbered dreams,
give you to show, give you to know,
Grok, Groot?
But in art, in feline purr, in glance or moment, song or sigh
at the end as always
I try
Grok, Groot?
(updated 8/3/16)

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