by Greg Gauthier

Words
are simple, uncomplicated,
compact little things.
Just scratches and lines,
littered across a thin slice of disposable time.
It is meaning
that we truly fear.
The hidden poison,
the sudden storm,
the deadly blade,
the dangerous predator lurking,
behind those delicate ornaments
of dancing thought
on each line.
…

Words
beg their commission
from a hidden king,
whose graces they resent.

Emissaries, soldiers, courtiers, troubadours, and priests,
they are sent forth from his castle
to bid the world take heed of him.

For without their tireless march,
the master would suffer alone in his windowless tower,
dark, brooding, and voiceless.

But without his strength,
those flickering lights of mirrored meaning
would themselves
go dark.