"The Sound of Language -- "

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A man in the alley, he murmured my name,

He spoke in a tongue that was older than shame...

He said, "Words are a staircase, but nobody climbs,"

"They fum-fer like hymns, they season like thyme..."

I say think of a painting that’s never been seen,

Drawn out in jargon, colored in routine...

A melody carved from the shape of a sigh,

A scripture of silence, a song in disguise...

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Oh, the sound of language, the language of sound (downs),

A prophet stands weeping, the choir sits down...

Is it the rhythm or is it the rhyme (thyme)?

Or just the way that it bends through the time?

Some say poems are stitched out of thread,

But I heard it's woven from things left unsaid...

Some build their temples with measures and chords,

But I kneel in the ruins, I follow the words...

A bus stop's a sermon if you know how to hear,

Poor engines can thunder, and the fonts disappear...

The ink and the Kindle, the prophet, the fool,

They dance with a fire-stick, they follow no rule*

Oh, the sound of language, the language of sound (downs),

A prophet stands weeping, the choir sits down...

Is it the rhythm or is it the rhyme (thyme)?

Or just the way that it bends through the time?

So tell me now, my friend, which voice do you trust?

The poet in exile, or neon echoes in dust (whispers)...

Is it the sound of language, the language of sound?

Or just another sermon that was always, never unbound...

-- "Think of an art form that is a form of art using the sound of language as a tool instead of the language of sound as a guide."