Broken bells..

Today  at dversepoets.com    Brian asks us what we think and feel about words and language.  For me there were two ways to go with this.  One was foreign languages but I chose the following.



Without words,
 we do not know -
that she feels she is part
of the last snow,
driven to obscurity;
her wick melted 
in a duo of pewter holders
In her night clothes,
she sinks into evening
as it folds it's shutters                                                                                                      
Nothing else to do but fade
into the dark night
Without words, 
she cannot tell of 
diamonds glinting
wickedly, temptingly,
from the earths walls,
or of words appearing as
yellow amber stones,
 fallen from mountaintops
 to her feet, timelessly 
Without words connected to
the last supper of hope,
some have perished in their search..
.some as a result of those found words.
This annoys her and makes her sad;
for somewhere, lost in the rubble, 
fear appears;
books shed their bindings,
all meaning is lost
Newly written words ache to replace 
those tattered and torn,
written in and of others' tales,
and stubborn untruths
Some could not have cared less
about a rainbow waiting,
a dream spun
Why write 
for something unattainable,
that never really existed
no point
Without words
freedom of speech is in danger
or already forgotten and put away;
why stick around to gather
sticky residue
 or for something to decay?
She knew that, 
without words,
there are no small smiles,
 no surprises,
or lumps in the throat;
 only numbness of body and tongue, 
fatigue, exist
One wants to know where
 the mirth went,                                 wasn't it here just yesterday?

Without words,
especially the best chosen,
life winds down and
fulfillment is an impossibility
"Who is the old woman
 in the mirror,"
she writes, "she wasn't here before?"
Questions needed to be asked,
letters needed to be written -
 long before her house
had been given away
 to strangers
"Who's coming to dinner....
 how many in attendance?"
The mountain climbed,
and mined,
she had swum up the river
and back again- she
does not want to depend,                              
 or pretend or hope too much

With right words found,
 one is free;
words written, spoken
 and played with
now become enough,
the prized achievement
of a lifetime -
to satisfy anyone with authority
or to those who lead her astray,
 to an empty well,
 She knew there was insufficient time
as she stepped through the debris,
crunching twigs
Tears drained the silt 
from her memory,
leaving clarity
Without words, there is no story
or no meaning -
 as if  colorless flowers
line a garden path,
 or like a pinwheel, 
 empty of wind from the north;
like the bells she had collected,
sitting still and broken
 beside her -
Words mean everything