Language is a leaky, creaky shed
Coated with a thin veneer of beauty
For the concepts we form in our head
Get twisted by words and our inability
to predict interpretation.

Why must I work with such shoddy boards?
To pick amongst the gnarled, for one to fit my structure?

Perhaps it is the lack of specificity
For each must encompass multiple meanings.

Perhaps it is the abundance of vocabulary
For I am limited by time and patience to choose.

Perhaps it is the scar of Chaos in my ancestry
For the rape has forever tainted our biology. And my mind?

Yes, that may be

Something indescribable
Imperceptible
Something is lost once words form
Nuance is neutered once words are born
Even while they have yet to leave our head.

I do not believe this to be a limitation of language
At least, not one of some
For if it is, it is present in all
from the common to the fringe.

No, it is a product of Perversion
The Chaos that permeates civilization
It had done irreparable damage to my soul
Concepts warped at verbal conception
Never does one understand it whole.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Lupar, in the year 838 AF.