The words they flow, through and through,

Running, skipping, bouncing too.

Under and over, bottom to top,

Swirling and laughing, they don’t ever stop!

 

All the day long the sun they chase,

Roaming meadows, castles, and space.

Off of rooftops they dance and sing,

In and out holes, pathways, and springs.

 

‘Free! Free!’ they chant as they tour towers,

Wildly they boast of their charms and their powers.

Smiling at all, they dare to be contained,

Little known to them, their wish will be sustained.

 

‘Hark!’ they all yell, fleeing in fear,

The shadow of a quill tipped pen has appeared.

Pushing and shoving, on the paper they crowd,

Suddenly, their boasts aren’t all that loud.

 

For while words will be words, wild and free,

They are no match for a writer like me.

Gathering them up, I use them at will,

And after gently prodding, they bend to my skill.

 

If a dream job I had, this is what it’d be,

The Whisperer of Words, who’re so wild and free.

I’d take them all in and line them up straight,

A beautiful picture and story they’d make.

 

I’d show the world with whatever it takes,

That words aren’t so bad if you give them a break.

Yes, wild and free they may very well be,

But words are no match for skilled writers like me.