A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

Emily Dickinson

It’s my dream
It’s my own dream
I dreamt it lying on a cot
That I was in love with a tot
A mite of a word in some gigantic plot
Hidden, quailing with broken wings
She was a teeny-weeny thing
That one day I wanted to sing
But she wouldn’t come out
Oh! How hard she fought
To stay put on the tip
Of my tongue
There she hung
Right in my mouth
Then shrinking back from my lip
My throat she sought
To drag her out
I tried and tried
Thought so much I almost died
Looked here and there
Got a thesaurus, a dictionary and a chair
The whole day I sat and read
Till they said I had lost my head
But I paid them no heed
As it was a noble deed
To find this word and nudge her out
Frightened she was I had no doubt
To come into the world of men
So to soothe her fear was my yen
I knew she feared why
She must be afraid she would die
But I would tell her that’s a lie
To stay unknown was what was wrong
Instead she should be wafting in a song
If she flew her wings would heal
Never a pain would she ever feel
Hers would be glory in songs and tales
The maiden voyage of a ship that sails
And if she felt these words were untrue
I would read to her what Emily knew
And had once penned down in lines so few.

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