Becoming the Wind

Creeping down the spine
of this language
I gather its words,
and find myself
f
   a
    l
     l
   i
      n
   g
with loss.
I arched too near the sun
in the joy of flight
and my words ignited.
Those intricate rules
and numerous hours
of linguistic theory,
melted wax and
smouldering rib.
Conversations whisper a w  a     y
delicately
grain by grain.
Blown
like pillars of s a l t
down across cities
and towns.
With this loss I
become the shaking wind,
invisible, only
able to SCREAM!