Wordy

Loquacious lanes where sentences unwind,
A river of words that refuses to find
Its bank, it spills in endless, winding streams,
Each syllable a bright, bewildering gleam.

The page grows stout with adjectives dressed fine,
With clauses piled like laundry on a line,
While commas pause, as if to catch their breath,
And semicolons stitch the cloth of thought.

Oh, verbose heart, you speak in measured sighs,
Yet meaning sometimes hides beneath the guise
Of flourish—like a theatre’s gilded drape,
That masks the simple truth beneath the shape.

So let us trim the excess, trim the fat,
Choose words that strike, like hammer on an anvil,
And let the quiet pause, the terse refrain,
Speak louder than the wordy, endless rain.