Words. Plain and simple.
They make, they destroy. They are placed, taken, dissected, chewed, held; broken down into bare molecular facets of their completed whole, then re-assembled with varying delicacy to varying results befitting a variable response from the intended audience.
Words are ironic.
And by these words, with words subject to your varying deconstructions, I present.
They come to me as faint whispers, soft sharp voices I ought to not hear.
But I do, and they fend me off like water sliding from a flower's petal.
Sometimes sunny, sometimes cast, mostly disturbing (but in a good way), always memorable.
Cold to the touch, hard to hold on; fleeting, its warmth; calming, its effects on me.
It causes repetition, like an overplayed tune, but without the placidity. The same words, over and over, whispered in echoes, carried in song, taken and liked.
My words, to my tastes, for your palette.