A Pulmonary Disease

Words, like a pulmonary disease can never soothe my heart like scalpels in the wrong hands they are lethal weapons with a deadly garb. But occasionally my lungs are lifted. And butterfly wings hover on the air. And like darts hit a bulls-eye centre square. In the right hands, words they are electric, fantastic, bombastic, sarcastic each syllabic footnote walks across my soul. Just like footprints, smoothed over. They are digested, like a well-made profiterole. My hunger for these words never wanes. I guess that's why I devour quatrains.