The words that once were
free at ease
recline beneath a
willow tree
wishing so to climb,
climb, climb,
to escape the evil on
the ground.
That evil is a devil
thing that stabs
and stabs, stabs, stabs
again,
till nought but “mush”
remains to speak
of love and peace and
harmony.
And that “mush” sends
up an ardent plea
to grow, grow, grow and
grow some more,
to knock at last on
heaven’s door
and ask, and ask, why,
why, why, why.
For now mere silence
filters down
and words listen,
listen more,
but nothing penetrates
the shell
that survival put in
place.
But they know, of
course, they know
because heaven speaks out
loud
when the channel free
of dirt and grime
picked up from that
filthy ground.
But how to make the
channel free
for more than minutes
in a day
and words ponder,
ponder, ponder more,
until claimed by exhaustive
sleep.
You’ll see them there
beneath the tree
but don’t disturb their
reverie
because they will have
to start again
from beginning till the
end.
How long it’s been, how
long will be,
but I can’t tell you
till I know
they’ve up and walked
away
to regain their
rightful place.
And their rightful
place a page of course
or three or four or
more and more and more!