On the Wings of Words

Words: The ones I craft contain my essence, layers of me.
My introspective journeys-outpouring of expressions- define
my purpose. Inside they'’d become stale, rank, bitter

Glimpses are myopic at best.
Flocks of words fly from my mouth, my pen
fluttering, lifted by each new current, held aloft
in the cracked, flawed clouds.
They forget to land, or get blown off course
or they linger too long

Birds? Or wolves in sheep'’s clothing?
Bloody, vicious, dripping with misguided fury:
unreasoning emotions, creeping honesty in the face of crouching fear.

The sheep get devoured by the words,
while the shepherd strums his harp.
Feathered, winged creatures fly on, looking for a safer place to land.

Sometimes though, the words are captured and housed
in somrarefieded aviary. They clutter the large, ornate structure
that houses them. This cage with the humors of tropical flowers,
bright, beautiful, on the verge of decay in the humus-filled
humidity, is where they drop their feathers. The floor is littered with them.

And we return to the sanguine sheep, bleating softly.....
or are they bleeding softly? And the shepherd lays down
his harp, his life while beating the vicious rippers, the bloody fangs,
the ravening yellow eyes.
He bares his fangs, the wolves retreat, and the sheep graze peacefully.

A new group of birds find the prevailing wind.
They flap away, carrying the words under their wings.


{2002}