My lips are the passage
The wide watergates
That open to pour a flood

They can be quiet and slow
Softly pressing against hard issues
Delicate about the impressions they leave
Letting out a whisper of a thought

I lick my lips in anticipation
Until patience itself becomes a whisper
And the steady flow becomes a fierce fire
Bubbling over the edges

My lips are not drawn to a pout
or smeared in a shiny red costume
But chapped, dry, and thirsty
For answers to the questions marks
they form in the pronunciation of my queries

My lips are aided by my mind
Who leads words like soldiers
Down to the fronts of my mouth
Placed strong and ready for battle

Pursed, they stand like a taut bow
Expression drawn into that of the string
And oh, my tongue is a weapon
The arrow to dart out
And barrage my opposition
With a rain of contention

They say, do not bring a sword to a gunfight
But, even truer, do not bring a gun to my lips
For with my dying breath
My lips with part
In a silent battle cry

My lips are only the gateway
An entrance for my theories
And a foyer to my musing
They are a path for others
To travel down the winding curves
And gentle slopes
My ideals brought to them
Like a favorite dish
Leading to their own lips

And if one would dare
To lock lips with mine

My lips would press close
And pass
Slowly, quietly
With gentle anticipation

Warm, as indulgence rages
Questioning how
The soldiers
Upon my tongue
Could be silenced so

Realizing that
their path
Of dreams and inquiries
Was leading towards
The door to you

And our lips