I’d like to have my way with words…

I'd love to have my way with words, to spill them till my heart's content.

It takes all time to say them loud so thinking is the way about.

Only one has crossed my lips, had I voiced, like a bird were to sing I would have never found it right. 

I'd speak of strings, with each one meaning. Sounding same but never are.

The people knew of quiet peace, here to have and not to pause.

I'd were to write, to jump, to rhyme till all the ends of time. 

I find a word, but fits it not. It goes away, to make some space.

To be forgotten and forsaken in its place to be the substitute.

Forgiving that it left its spot and vanished into nothingness.

The pages filled with action kept from time to time. Red leather bound to it, adorning with gold and all.

Once little eyes might spy the letters, rowing on its leather plate. 

With ink all black and paper white the sight was to be kept.

The sun had set and no one come until the door creaked at last.

A hope, salvation? Had freedom come?

The little one just skipped and jumped, like wind browsed in a storm.

The hands picked up the work in red, but was she here to read or not?

Would she want to keep what's left, untouched by others hands?

A noble lady like she was, would she go on and take? Or just regard to leave it here? 

The room fell silent, not one sound. The words blended in ones thought.

I'd wish they'd find a home real soon. Or else they might join ashes by noon.

The book then closed, no dust whirled up, like the girl had done just now.

The distance closing. Her face so bright, light freckles painted in its folds. 

She was so jung, a baby. Mature, a word so far from true. I knew she had to be. The age was young but the conduct so stiff like old wood not good to move. She could be sick or just one prideful little lady. I'd jump around the room again if I were to once be young again. 

Her dress danced along, the hair brushed back and a face with radiance so filled. Her youth was full, a girl to bloom. To enchant the hearts of worlds.

The book clasped close, was this the end? Would my work be taken?

She spoke real friendly, quick in tone. 

Was she to buy the book she asked. I couldn't answer, and nodded swift.

The money given, the book returned to its fair owner. The girl then left, just once again. This was my, not her last time. 

My bones were worn, my heart leathery and skin was folded. I layer down with peace of mind. Knowing I had had my way with words.

The book was gone, my life as well. But the words they would stick. I knew I had no way with songs of speech, still I knew I had my way with words.

Story: A red book. Story written on 24/25. Sep.