The Words

The Words

There among the pictures and maps,

books and brushes

lives an old man.

His painting days are done,

his hands quake and quiver.

Exotic travels have long passed,

his journeys are memories.

His books he holds close and dear,

but soon they too disappear

for his mind fills

not with their stories

but his.

Can he write a tale so grand?

He shuffles his body.

He shuffles his papers.

He tests his new pen and old boned fingers. 

His mind rakes out a story

forced and squeezed it is laid out

across blank pages.

Words.

Just words.

And there the story rests

upon his evening chair.

Untitled and unbound,

finished yet incomplete.

The words are split between the arms. 

They drip and dribble down the legs

and are left to crawl and comb

through the thick forest of fur below.

They survive the carpet

weathered, wrinkled, and worn.

They trudge on.

Word by word.

The pages

they must follow too

for what are they without their words?

They free fall to their deaths below.

Pushed they tumble through what feels like empty space

but they are wrong.

The molecules of air rebel,

and to the forest they will fall.

Survivors march after the words.

The capitals are natural leaders,

pulling along languages’ other straggling features.

They safari through the small old house

and everywhere they see the old man.

They see him in the painted strokes. 

They see him in his hand sewn strewn cloths.

They find him in faraway maps and bookshelves.

But they do not find the old man in themselves.

Distraught the words all scatter

finding new homes in places that matter.

    Phrases cling to frames.

                    Letters hide in brushes.

Words wander the creaking floor

                            wishing to be used once more.

He finds them all

                     alone.

His story is no more.

But was it ever truly his?

Words chosen with thought and care?

No.

With kindness and love?

Again, no.

He creaks and crinkles 

on palms worn and knees wrinkled

searching the word covered floor.

Choosing with patience and care

he painstakingly retraces them in their rightful places

among the ordered pages.

And then he read something new

something not quite so tired

something true.

Forget me not for I am you.

I shall not be abandoned nor torn

My pages are strong

they keep your mighty thoughts,

protect your fearless dreams.

I demand all.

 Complete me so that I may rest.

Complete me for peace.

Complete me to be free.

Surrender your most precious,

most sacred words

and I will breath you life.

We are your words, own us.

The old man heard the words.

He bound a strong spine 

straightening in his chair.

He wrote to the beat of his heart,

his pulse echoed with strength.

He smoothed the word covered papers,

his hand moved with strange ease.

He dug deep for a title 

and recovered lost memories.

He wrote with courage and command

living up to their demands.

You

he wrote

are my words.

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