It’s not that I lack the words.
I can see them in all their finery
Hear their resonance inside my skull;
Taste their lingering richness.
They are smooth as a silver fish
And have the heart of a dragon
Burning to be used.
Smouldering with a vividness
Only found in hot coals and fairytales.
Where I sit now
It is drab and cold – there is no magic in this milieu.
Raindrops are my companions,
Each falling wet on wet
Cold on cold.
In the palace of my mind
Full of grandeur and gold
These words recline on velvet cushions,
Complacently savouring the luxury of just existing.
Priceless art cannot show as much as these words.
Diamonds are not as beautiful,
Wine is not as intoxicating
Nor are iron-bound caskets so full of treasure.
I alone know their worth
For they are elusive
And will not consent to be displayed.
I alone must lament
And know their loss,
Whilst they remain smugly resplendent