Words are what I love above all other
components of creation’s rainbow rain.
Fulfilment beckons when I am smothered
beneath the stream of alphabetic skein.
For words can dance and sing and paint the sky;
they sculpt the night and heighten solar flares.
They influence cold minds to tears and sighs
and take the hardened-hearted unawares.
Yet, I say fulfilment only “beckons”,
for there’s a darker aspect to this verse;
one on which I never would have reckoned
but which is my secreted cri de Coeur.
For though with words I make ten thousand worlds,
they laugh at me for what has not unfurled.
© 2011, Alan Morrison