Futile Games

As words within me scurry,
To and fro, in such a hurry,
I cast away, all my worries,
And delight myself, in memory.

They tickle me sometimes, they are as sweet as you,
They play with me sometimes, adorable and cute,
Those little words, which have no meaning,
They are born of my growing memories.

When I think of you, it is such things, that spring,
And as words scurry, so quick, lending,
More to my paper, they tell me everything,
Sometimes it is those nonsense words that set this going.

These words, are like secrets, like our little quirks,
There words are not profound, in my head, they lurk,
Purely different words, English doesn’t know them,
When I think of you, invented is a new language.

Words which say all the sweet things, words which connected,
Words which spoke of great things, to soul, dejected,
Words that now scurry, playing cat and mouse,
Quickly tap my fingers, oh, it’s such a rush!!

But are they all that’s left, only mere words?
Only in black and white, on stale paper?
Won’t your voice ring through then, clear?
Why do you have to be so distant, so far?

Oh, words, they can scurry, they can play,
They can occasionally amuse, but they cannot drain,
The emptiness that occupies, the sorrow that spreads,
They cannot take that away, try they may.

So, speak to me, please, words always can’t
Replace the voice, that once was,
So cheerful and pleasant in my ear,
Come back, please, reappear.

12:43 am, 16th January, 2010.