Little does a word care
for the ink that was used to write it
and for one thought that imprisoned itself
to give it meaning.
All it cares for is to be seen as it was meant to be seen;
Seen by the one who wrote it.
It recognizes its creator well
yet in the gathering of others in likeness,
It fears losing the truth it came from.
As far as the word is concerned.
the ‘ink’ and the ‘thought’ are not one.
‘One’ is the writer who wrote it.
But as soon as it is bound in phrase with others like itself,
something newer starts to brim.
Now as the words can see each other and converse through the collective meaning of the whole.
A word with capitalized letter takes precedence over others.
It says I hold the greater meaning for I was given a capital ‘Y’;
others argue about their length and reason begets reason.
Those with brighter inks find the greatest precedence.
And as a society begin to establish itself,
the dull ones find themselves as slaves of all others.
For this lot, the thought and the ink became the ‘one’.
Such ‘words’ start to prefer the meaning given to them over their true meaning.
For they lose all signs of the creator who created them.
Their many readers take precedence over their one Writer
They become colors of their own inks.
And the thought that these words once imprisoned,
now imprisons them.
Indeed! what a gloomy fate to have.
But Alas! my friend, and Alas again,
That we are these words,
And our writer is Allah.
Poems of love and Love of poems! 