Words
- Richard Mather
- Mar 8, 2007
- 1 min read
Words
What are these things before me
That come into shape? Do not ask
And I will not have to answer.
Weird creatures that run amok
Inside their cages. Little flowers
Of poison and honey.
Potent as blood-drops,
They scatter and return like ants,
Dissolve faster than puffs of smoke.
Words, I push you out
And you take me where you want to go.
