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WORDS. They are my silent friends. I love them. Really love them. Always have. Always will.

I slumber on at night in fitful sleep. Then they come for me, wondrous and insistent, and torture me relentlessly. They form in my head, hesitantly at first, then in a progressively persistent fashion.
'Listen to us', they say, 'and we will fall into rhyme for you'. They know I love the balance of rhyme.

I listen as they go about their business, demanding alliteration, cadence and assonance as the verses are shaped. Then comes my decision to limit their scope as I tell them I will play along but only so far.
They need my mind and I crave their beauty. 

So the deal is done and the piece written. And there it rests. But not for 
long. Then the poem has to be recorded in print, for the words demand it. 
'Show us to your world, they say, 'we have given you our beauty, you must share us with your friends and fellow readers'. 

So I commit the work to the website that suffers my inconsequential offerings. And there it stays where people read it. And I read it and constantly edit it. For who would arrange roses in a joyless vase?
Now I am spent. Content. But the words are not. They become restless and demanding. 'We know you sing and we feel we are worthy of some tune you could easily put to us. 

We do not ask for classical notation, merely a tune that would be sung on occasion, bringing joy or solace to some needful soul. Do not deny us!'
And so I cobble together an unsatisfactory tune to the words, to round off the delightful, tortuous process. Again I am fulfilled. But the words are not.  

They have the power that tells me we have jointly come this far from nothing but a sleepless night and  I must perform the song for others to value their beauty. 
The tune is not worthy of the words but they are forgiving on this; they know their worth and that will suffice them. 

I eventually and somewhat reluctantly get up at some friendly 'open-mic' venue and sing the words that came of insomnia. And the circle is complete. And the job is done. Over. Finished. 
Then I awake the next night and the words are there again. New wondrous words. 'We are here, work with us. Sing us!' I can never rail at them for long.

I love their beauty and know I am truly blessed that it is me they come to visit.
And I hope one day to give at least one night's sleepless sojourn the glory of an unforgettable song. That will echo through the ages. 
All is well. Bring on the night.
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