What good are words, at last she starts to ask,
and why so wonderful do they still seem
when they appear to fail at every task
of deep significance? For she’ll esteem
and honor words and use them very well,
while others hide in them and mean them not,
corrupt their sense, emasculate their spell,
abuse a definition they forgot.

She still insists there’s power in a name,
intention and true magic in a word.
She spends her time erecting lingual frames,
explains herself and learns her poem’s absurd.
And worse, the verse that no one cares to read?
It ricochets in her and makes her bleed.