The Written

With an empty screen in front of me,
A mountain of thought inside of me,
A will that tries to move me,
A feeling that something beholds me.

Words that mean so much,
Yet words that do not affect,
Words that seek to change,
Words that achieve but praise.

Write but still I will,
Pray that hearts they fill,
For rely must I on skill,
If man may never kill.

But who will hear my cry,
Who will change their ways,
Who will think anew,
Who will heed my word?

The written that be read,
And stay not in man's head,
Is but like common bread,
Is eaten and then now shed.

Nay it should be like wine,
Should quicken the man's heart,
Should free him of his wretched humanity,
Should make him forget both day and night.

Tell him what he dare not think,
Caress his heart, ripen it, till the brink,
Fill his soul, free the link,
Freshen his body, let him not sink.

Let him be, not man, but chimp,
Let him think, not caged, but free,
Let him hope, not gold, but grace,
Let him feel, not pain, but love.

Empty screens don't stay that way,
Not when I can have my say,
Read but to mould your clay,
For else, heavy, is the price we pay.

Francis Thomas
29/06/09