Solid:

Hands push through language
tossed out as garbage,
harsh vowels clash, sharpened swords
thirsty for a touché!
As the sun sets into another evening
bottles rattle,
glass threatens to erupt,
to find the liquid lost in an alchemist’s trap.

Nothing changes.

Everything evolves into nuanced silhouettes
of the original,
a mannequin of airs and courtesies
that hide the daggers of truth and desire.

On the ground,
back to the grass and dirt,
ears listen to the whisper
of return.

Eyes push through the clouds
and unseen hope
into the fancy
everything is as solid as can be.