It's a lonely old game

I’m married to words

to verbs, nouns, adjectives,

phrases, passages and turns

phrases, passages and turns

oh, did I already say that?

God I love words.

 

But it’s a lonely old game

this etymological dribbling,

a gathering of openings to close

a polygamous orgy with nothing.

 

So long as I treat them with respect

words allow me to do as I like with them

to use and disabuse them

chop and splice them

discard and replace them

massage and mould them

for the sole purpose of my pleasure.

 

When words are with me

I’m a dainty little dancer

almost not myself but free

to do just as I please

to caress and tease them

to muddle and squeeze them.

 

They really don’t care

so when words abandon me

(and they do so without warning)

I’m left bereft and purposeless

a painfully morose ghost

white as a sheet of foolscap.

 

Now I come to think of it

words can be a right pain

make me look out the window

at something I’ve seen before

but I just laugh at them.

 

Words can be cruel and mysterious too

one minute they mean absolutely everything

the next I wonder what I ever saw in them.

They know I’m lost without them

that it’ll only be a question of time before I’m back

to plead with them for another chance

for old times’ sake and all that.

 

Maybe we weren’t meant to be together

just another sad ridiculous story

of one man’s fixation

with what may have been

if only I’d love them more

but I’ll never let them go

they’re all I’ve got

and I can’t stop playing with them.