Words, taking on so many colours.
With scenarios flitting back and forth.
With some lines unwritten; others die at birth,
Stillborn and not brought back.
Some notions yet dangle out of reach.
–
Heady words are washed into patterns.
Visions are observed and given life.
Minding over these from line to line,
And purging to completeness.
–
Faint revisions made to frozen thoughts.
Being they plain or elegant,
All emptied onto paper.
Simple verse to rival scripture and scroll,
Made by thought and a common hand.
Held in place, for either long or short.
Even when unread, singing silently to itself.
Making music in the dark.
Emanating hues unseen.
–
Maybe just rumpled paper,
Holding rainbow-coloured thoughts,
Speaking softly without sound,
With something precious in every word.
Laying fallow, yet possessing its message.
A missive dancing unseen in shadow.
–
These, the writer’s dreams, begging for freedom,
Through style and rhyme, imagery and theme,
And all coming down to words,
They… that take on so many colours.