Doors restrict only those that move
locks imagine your thoughts will not flee.
A fine dress waits silently to enter the banquet hall
from the days it stayed in a cold corner of the cloth rack.
Were sentences hiding in the pages
as words refused the escape to pen from the soul.
Fingers round the tool that create the mind’s reflection
paused never
wanting to throttle each letter birthed anew.
Smearing a feeling on paper is incomplete
like a photograph of a rose
that cannot give the sweet smell.
Words struggle to be true to the heart
which feels and each emotion sets out on a journey long
all the way straight down to the pen
held captive by the fingers.
Sedated by the rocking movement of the wrist
words forget their way to the paper
where they are to get imprinted
and sleep off in the pen like a baby.
Let words sleep
as only sleep can bring dreams
without them more meaning is impossible
to be given to words that no longer remember
what they had meant.