You say words are beautiful,

That to understand them,

You must take them apart

And analyze every bit

To shreds and determine

All these preconceived

Meanings, and mold

Every other thought,

To fit some kind of format

That is deemed ideal.

Let me tell you,

That words are rigid,

That they have no mercy,

They follow no template,

That they control an average thought

To make room for a sonnet, and

That soon they engulf your mind,

As a whole, not in pieces,

Regardless of how much you plead

To be spared, because in their

Meaning, it isn’t some kind of torture,

Yet in your mind, it is, and that

My dear fellow, is the bare beauty of words

And the infinite interpretations that come with them.