desiresjab
08-30-2016, 05:03 AM
Language is the vaulted, free library
Where I go to borrow words,
Check them out for my little poems.
They are not my words.
On the shelves so many words—
So many choices spin me dizzy,
But only a small town's population
Of them are truly busy words.
There is no date to bring them back,
No slot to return words,
There are endless copies for anyone,
Though musty with inactivity is normal for most words
And the reason there are even a few lost words.
They come from near and far away,
Spoke by mouths in Chaucer's day
Or added to the tongue another year
When clever wordsmith smote our ear.
Yea, by the thousands and tens of thousands they have come,
Some from close provinces
And some by the ancient passes of smugglers and refugees
Who may not know family again;
From their shelves they cry out to me
Like frightened, impounded dogs—
For me to choose them to take home
And put in a warm poem.
But I can only take a few words
For very specific needs,
Hardly enough to lessen their din
In a noticeable way.
Where I go to borrow words,
Check them out for my little poems.
They are not my words.
On the shelves so many words—
So many choices spin me dizzy,
But only a small town's population
Of them are truly busy words.
There is no date to bring them back,
No slot to return words,
There are endless copies for anyone,
Though musty with inactivity is normal for most words
And the reason there are even a few lost words.
They come from near and far away,
Spoke by mouths in Chaucer's day
Or added to the tongue another year
When clever wordsmith smote our ear.
Yea, by the thousands and tens of thousands they have come,
Some from close provinces
And some by the ancient passes of smugglers and refugees
Who may not know family again;
From their shelves they cry out to me
Like frightened, impounded dogs—
For me to choose them to take home
And put in a warm poem.
But I can only take a few words
For very specific needs,
Hardly enough to lessen their din
In a noticeable way.