Words Grown Up Poem by Mathew Lewis

Like a trembling tot
on the night of christmas eve
a poet waits.
Knowing the magic of the night
is near;
he must try to sleep.
Else the rhyme will never come,
And he will be lost...
in obscurity.
Patience is needed,
a silent waiting game played
between art and reason.
He cautiously scribbles a line,
takes it back,
reforms the naked words.
They are vulnerable now,
unprotected by punctuation
syntax and tone.
For now they quiver,
on a christmas eve page
still believing in magic.
But the truth will come soon,
With it stark and cold realisation.
The words are all grown up now,
They are a cog in the machine of poetry,
And like a child told that father christmas is fake,
They no longer believe in magic.