Dry as a bone they are honed and hung over salted sea.
They quiver, strung tight and proud before they dispatch to a new world.
Liquid wit streams from their pores and smiles upon smiles are brave to meet them: this merry dance is the new everything.
Shuttered windows show their worth in barring sensible lines of linguistics that demand brevity in both bulk and sense.
We are wiser than this.
These barbed licks of tongues, split and lapping, reside in cells where walls are salivated to a sheen.
Let them maintain a vulgar, menial gratification.
Silent winds leave the golden trees without a chiming beauty; there is no sounding-board for the rabid when the windows reflect only ashen grey.