The words parade in protest at the gleaning,
Ripped from tongue and trapped in book and page.
Bereft of sense and sound, in fading feeling,
Unkempt and half asleep, provoked to rage.
Between the breaths, behind the lines entangled,
Clawing at old meanings, somehow lost
By sharpened quill, by dripping ink soon mangled.
Remembered, yes. But at a woeful cost.
To lose the heartbeat that would spur the words to wander
To forge new paths that open eye and mind.
Not manacled, not bound. No voice would squander
The tale, the thread, that only ears can find.
But in the books suspended as in water
Not floating free, half drowning looking out,
At those upon the shore, set up for slaughter
By surgical removal of all doubt.
For doubt it is that lends the ear its fervour.
It stills the breath and brings the faces in
Towards the words that carry on forever,
The story soars when fear and doubt begin.
ogginblog 