I had come to discover words.
And I never needed to define my words,
but always hoped my words would define me.
And words would come to fill my head,
and the more words I desired, the more
my words mired my thoughts. Those words sought release,
and my words came to spill onto my page.
Every thought, once thought as wise or sage played
upon each piece of pristine papyrus, a word plagued virus.
Each word stained page came assembled in hope
to resemble the poetic pondering of some word genius,
one of the genus Poeticus Delecticum who would come to be read
from far and wide in reading room and library.
But nary a word has reached those depths or breaths or lengths.
The strength of my poetic beauty traversed not the world nor universe.
My best poem has gone north to brighten the capital
of the Great Provincial North. She has become the last word that defines me.
She finds me close to her heart as we send her off to start her new life as a wife.
A wealth of words. A beautiful new song. Another poems for the world. Andrea.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik