I always say too much so please forgive me
if my words become a gush. I promise you
will never drown beneath them; they have
spaces in between for you to safely dream
and breathe them into common sensely
sentences if that’s your only chosen path
across my weirdly widely lifesome epigraph.
But if you love the things I write and say
then you will find that they can never be
chaotic seas of random interplay but
pictures you have never seen before nor
ever will again, for only newness issues
from this pen. My words are fiery ballet
dancers pirouetting over bloodstained
gothic balconies and landing on the lawn
below without a scratch (before the dawn).
My words are not just letters on a page
but paints from nature’s plantly dyes on
pallets made from eucalyptus tenderised
and then matured through soaking in the
rivers four which into paradise would roar
in times before our innocence was lost.
With brushstrokes bold and free my words
become a litany of frankincense (including
myrrh to show that all things must occur).
If you will take my lettered hand and fly
with me through alphabetic wonderlands
of wordly ways, then gold and silver I can
never promise to provide but offerings of
infinitely greater value will be heaped up
by your side. For every anguished paean I
ever wrote has through these barren years
postponed itself in limbo waiting for the all
elusive antidote to emanate in space and
time and thus complete my soulful rhyme.
© Alan Morrison, 2015