Roman Ryan

When you are a word
With zero vowels
You command a certain respect
And force the writer to listen
So how does the rhythm flow through the fingers that type?
There is less letter flow than pen wielding
So the flow must come from the words
And their spacing
So precise on the screen
Or their length of sounding out
The way the phonetics
Turn into memetics
So while the lines I write
May not be the lyrics to a beautiful song
Nor the notes to a bird chorus
Perhaps they directly access
The rhythms of limbs muscles organs brain
And are the summation of a bodily symphony
That rings resonant
Starting from the brain
And ending in the heart