Wasted Words (Poetry)

These maybe wasted words — small heaps
of letters that I dare not keep
too long for fear no one will ever read them

yet there is a strange comfort in
the way I can recycle them —
and make a truthful compost from their meaning

fork them over — leave them be
to mulch down immortality —
regain the shape of thoughts forever floating ...

I can always start again —
string them fine in hopeful lines —
a message — just one more communication

offered on the dream exchange —
postcard poems pinned to trees
ruined by rough vandal winds of autumn

all those printed words and songs
unsung that pile — drift dead along
the hedgerows — decompose themselves like litter

they may burn books — plant sly a bomb
but words like weeds survive alone
I’ve rescued them from scribble in my diary

cleaned the wounded and set free
whole pages between you and me
changed the names where ink’s disguised on paper

they live to tell another tale
and save my sanity as well —
words reused and offering a future.