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,

illuminating these

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