A ragtag army of syllables was I,
Incoherent and mumbling they did dwell,
Always with rumour and mutiny swell,
This uncivil crowd in perpetual misery.
Then one arrived and each syllable took
To scrape and chisel to a perfect look.
Each shone like a flower, alive, radiant,
Each held its share of meaning’s gradient.
The one then drew up all my will,
Shorn it of desire and human skill.
My will he shaped as a silver thread
And strung all syllables to a garland.
From the last spot of will yet leftover,
The garland I offered to my Paramour.