Thursday, 4 May 2017

The Word Is


Down in a burrow of words,
wrapped in a nest of lines,
I curl naked and shorn of worry,
mufflered in down hibernation,
and meandering cosy of mind.
Way down below the tumult,
away from the dust to dust,
where the (specious?) end of our species,
has them running and chanting

Down below the lexicon dessert,
polishing my harvest store of words,
I quilt snuggle them all around me,
in a coloured antithesis of guilt.
Tucking stray fibres back in place
and unknotting quite a few.
Safe within my thoughts in thoughts,
I will never leave this pew.

When all the world is ended,
<recite the ways to the end of days>
I will leave behind this midden,
unbidden and hidden,
a hermitage of words.
Cultured in the rise and fall
of a civilisation doomed to die.
As they all eventually do.

So, as elderly fingers demented,
unpick my fibre of verse,
readily, steadily, defenestrating
all the golden tapestry words,
I will dream on upon the halcyon rhymes
from better times, when
words could enrapture the world.
Relegated to the underworld,
where thoughts unfurled are
nibbled from the nest of me.
At the end of these shredded times,
can you think of a better place to be?
Than in a narcotic slumber,
of words mainlined,
with a word much maligned,
and that word is?
... Poetry

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