The tools of this language;
they are so robotically finite,
yet the work they do,
can elicit humanly infinite emotions
Watchful are the workmen of these tools,
while others toy with them–for
luxuries, these tools appear to be
Colonies were ought to be
for others, but more for workmen;
to refine words, to cleanse them
from incognizant feelings they cause
to inspire others, to see words not,
as toys, but the feelings they embody
Ah! but I see the cockiness of the creator
Why else would workmen of words fall prey-
to the bland connections of words others make,
making spirals in search for a deeper meaning–
a meaning that never existed in others’ toying.
Why else would workmen of words leave their colony
to admire the superficiality, a lack of aesthetic sense,
and give up colors to envy black and white and all that is in between.
Why else would workmen of words hesitate
to stand ground against what is socially intolerable.
Oh God! Where has wisdom slipped?
Amidst words? Within its own unforgiving purity?
Oh God! When would wise appear different from gullible!?
Would that workmen of words see this work
as dedicated to him, inviting him back to colony!?