There’s something I wanted to say today
but everything in me conspires with might
making the gist of it fritter away
(my meteorite wordpuzzle fly-by-night).
It cries out, it screeches, it longs to be free.
It yearns for expression affirmatively.
It even harangues me while I’m asleep
invading my dreams — it’s more than skin-deep.
But what if I blurt out this unsprung song?
What if it will not be bound anymore —
its clamour for light I cannot ignore —
its secret sound I can no more prolong?
Those words which want so vastly to be said:
Than give them up, I’d far rather be dead.
© 2011, Alan Morrison