Words teased from memory
experience and circumstance
spin themselves into form, telling me their story.
If I'm lucky, I listen, if I'm not, their lesson
drifts into the air, while my conscience blocks the glare,
in contradictory style
I've grown accustomed to.
But the words still come, floating with the sun,
and light and hue and meaning,
so much, like stars, they're jewels to me,
redundant days and boring nights,
words are gifts I need.
The curve of a ryhme or a riddle I find
while dusting off and sifting through
bad writing or carelessly strewn,
sentences and journals,
saves the mind from thoughts that blur those
ideas God gives us,
while angels lift thoughts of love
to beget perfect rhyme,
words will save me every time.
copyright 2008 Rose Loya