Cages of pages

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.

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