He penned the words, like a babbling brook, cascading, glinting and shimmering across the page,
Different forms and shapes, subtle colours and variations.
The nuances changed, one moment speaking life, and in a flash without a hint of remorse those very same words spoke death!
How did it happen?
How was I tricked and manipulated?
The pen of the writer cast a spell, weaving its magic across the page.
Oh what a wonderful yet dreadful gift,
Feeding love and hate in the same breath.
Entrapping readers, moving from blessing to cursing at the merest glance,
am I being mesmerised in the changing colours of the setting sun?
The pen is not a robot, delivering words autonomously without emotion,
But subject to the writer, his heart and motivation.
So, when you next get drawn into the spell, casting a dappled shadow across your life,
There is a context more important than the words.
The motivation and heart of the writer.
It’s time to live again.
John Lowton
June 2023
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