Asperger's

Shape-shifted and formed before leaving the crib,
Words are rolled about for weaning,
Bounced off of tongue and tooth,
Silently chastised and bantered about.
(Should I use alliteration?
An allegory perhaps- but shall it muddy my meaning?)

My Isolde is not mine at all-
I have held them and loved them so much
In their youth- they have become their own.
Thus, like a late-aged Cronus
My children fall from my lips
A shameful glory if there ever was-

I am so fashioned and formed
In speech and thought that
Nature alone subdues the shape.
Raw in her unheeded power,
She reminds me of what men were
Wrought to make- namely, life and love.

She has no snytax but that of time
No diction (truth offers no choice.)
Her poems are silent, yet always speak
With a haunting and reverent voice.

It is here, among the altar of elms,
That I lay this burden, when words, like slaves
Threaten to forget their master.
I fall full of clumsiness, and speak like a child
In uneven, fitful bursts.

The veil I wear is invisible,
Yet complete-
No one pierces it but my wife.
Her love for me, and my love for her
Arms her with a lover's knife
That bares me- naked and weak
The words so formed, refuse to speak
Then crumble back to the clay and dust,
Leaving me mortal, for a moment at least.