it is for this I write

words play in the background
like leaves through tangled grass,
ideas sneak and hide
like rabbits, sleek and fast,


the meaning is there,
but will it rise?
and will I catch it
before it flies?


how many words will fall
like feathers to the ground?
how many will I collect
before the meaning is found?


how many strings must there be
to weave the thoughts all into one?
how many eyes must there be to see
the light from the inner sun?


to express the heart, simple and profound,
without throwing so many words around,
it is for this I write,
to craft what is concise tonight...


"why cast a net of words,
when captured meaning has little freedom,
and when you can dive deep,
to experience that which you truly seek."

The End

21 comments about this poem Feed