Workmen of words

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,expert eyes

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!?

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