What might it be like if words ceased to exist— if they turned into mist, grew tired of resist-ing the onslaught of mass and matter, lost the gumption to fight things with form and function?
If they no longer sat coyly on the tip of our tongues, leaving us completely undone. We'd open our mouths to speak and none would come.
I'd stand at the grave of rhythm and rhyme mourning the time we'd had. And what a time it was! But I'd have to mark that spot somehow because that place of remorse would be unmarked, of course.
Would the body rejoice? And with its own unique voice say— in its wily way— "Stand aside! This is my day. I've been 75 percent of the talk anyway. Now let me have the rest."
Perhaps we would all be dancers, fashioning a new language of nuance with the Provenance of our souls made flesh and blood— the spirit meshed with the mud that makes us.