Spilt Milk

Words are funny
The way they taste like honey
When they exit the mouth,
The sound is born 2.8 centimeters south
Of the epiglottis, and all the rhyming
Formed in the brain is sent downstairs,
Until it’s at the tip of your tongue,
The bottom rung of the ladder breaks,
And you would have hoped
The latter was stronger,
Perhaps more profound,
But each time you look,
You’ve found the same answers,
Thoughts are just electrical impulses,
Or dancers, skipping, prancing,
Around the corners of the squish,
And you wish there was more
To it than this, but when it’s all there,
It’s still as vague as this,
But that’s the point,
Sense is for the senseless,
One more blink
And I’m done with this.