Running in blocks of crossword,
a pen between my toes,
words, in flights of fancy,
took off in numeric rows.
The lines marched on in order
- an expression of escape -
and a comma, not a full-stop
passed sentence by mistake.
Italics leaned lazily,
the bold wrapped up in smoke.
They waited back at base-camp
but still no wordsmith spoke.
The words fought and bled for space,
red crosses past the page,
ignored their printed orders
and deserted in a rage.
In the mutiny that followed
were cries for reinforcements
came screaming was Dictionary
with help from punctuation!
The muddle in blood puddle
dipped slowly into the sea
and it drowned inside a teacup
which was drinking thoughts from me.
Running in circles in a teacup,
the words were ankle-deep.
I took them out and dried them
but they all looked rather weak.
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