Or, it could be two words–one or two, but that’s it.
Writing like this was once a joy
which came easily and early, excitedly, freely
as Christmas morning’s new toy
dreamed and hoped for, wished, ideally;
with Pollyannaish tones on parade,
words dancing and gliding, mating and meeting
like the way of a man with a maid
a romance and affair, tender, fleeting;
now lonely lines trouble the mind
pages toneless and joyless, lifeless, pointless
wondering wordless and unkind
no address to access, just success to transgress.
Free, is one of the good words,
of all the burdensome nouns and verbs
demanding so much of their import,
insisting as they treat us as sport;
but this one is careless and pure,
surprising to most, to some unsure,
unaccustomed to such freedom,
at liberty to be or even become;
for gifts are seldom gotten or given
without force, carelessly forgiven,
sailing at ease, running and forsaking,
all not’s and un’s there for the taking.
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